


Winter's Heart

by WardenoftheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Cheating, Cuckquean, Daddy Kink, F/F, F/M, Incest, Infidelity, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Multi, Porn With Plot, Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenoftheNorth/pseuds/WardenoftheNorth
Summary: Jon Snow is brought to King's Landing at the behest of his father, King Rhaegar, who desires that his son take his true place amongst his Targaryen family.There, Jon quickly learns that life in the South might not be as terrible as he'd first imagined it to be.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**ELIA**

 

There was quiet in the court when Jon Snow arrived, though it was not one of contentment.

King Rhaegar, with his hair thinning and his eyes dimming as youth had finally began to fade, called the boy from his family in the North and into the fresh hell of King's Landing, his reasons known only to himself, as was the way with most decisions in recent time.

Yet still, as Jon Snow arrived at the capital, the entire city seemed to hold still for a breath. There was fear in their silence. The poor footed the cost of royal scandal and no scandal was more costly than he. The Crownlands bled like a gutted pig in Robert's Rebellion and they would not do so a second time. His banishment to Winterfell had been to ensure such a fate.

Queen Elia however, did not hold fear. She was a beautiful lady, her beauty transcending her form and falling deep into her spirit, with dark eyes that held warmth and a smile that stilled all. Her health had settled in her adulthood, her face wearing maturity with a grace beyond all. In the years of peace after Robert's Rebellion, the smallfolk had grown weary of most of the nobles at court, though Elia's name had never left their songs.

Elia knew her husband, her King, better than all but the Gods, though even she did not know the true reason behind Lyanna's child's invitation to the Red Keep. Privately, she'd thought that perhaps he knew that her own children's fate was not the throne, though he nor anyone south of the Neck knew enough about the boy to say that he belonged there either.

Nonetheless, the throne room still held more guests than it'd done in living memory as the sound of horse's hooves filtered through the filthy air of King's Landing. Every living Targaryen held their position there, even the oft-unseen Targaryens of Dragonstone, Viserys and Daenerys, whom stood at distance from the Crown Prince and Princess. Elia stood at her known place, a step behind King Rhaegar, whom sat calmly upon the throne without a single expression playing upon his face. What a luxury it must be, Elia thought, to know the future before all else did.

It was not long after the first sign of arrival that the herald called the entry of Jon Snow, though the seconds crept along rather than galloped.

"Your Graces, Lords and Ladies of the court, I present to you Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, his son Lord Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and Jon Snow!" he called out, though Elia heard the discomfort in his voice at declaring one as lowly as a Snow, royal bastard though he might be.

At once, the eyes of the court flickered toward the entryway, their unwavering focus upon the three men that entered. Lord Stark appeared as he had done for all of life, sombre and powerful, though not un-handsome, the blood of the First Men never straying too far from his features. Lord Robb was as much a southern lord in visage as he was a northern one in personality, his high cheekbones and dimples fighting the frown that his face wanted to hold.

Jon Snow, however, was altogether singular. His hair fell in waves darker than midnight, his skin white and unblemished like fresh snow. There was a brilliance to his features, a great beauty to them, with a strong jaw and the sharp, intelligent grey eyes of those who knew the real cold of the North. But, his cheekbones drew high, his face regal and proud, his lips redder than the rubies that adorned Rhaegar's helm.

There was not a person in the court then that would contest the boy's beauty and especially not Elia, for he possessed so much of Rhaegar. Their eyes held the same quiet melancholy, even in distraction, such was Jon's case as he took in the court at large. His body held the same lithe, graceful strength. An artist with a blade, rather than a brute. Amazingly though, he was perhaps even more beautiful than Elia's husband.

There was a prettiness to Rhaegar that gave him youth even in maturity, though there was a great masculinity to Jon's features that offered strength behind his pretty looks. Jon's dark hair brought colour into his skin, unlike the pale shadows that turned the King's skin waxy. Crucially though, as Jon approached the throne, Elia could see that it was not just melancholy within his eyes.

Jon did not kneel before his father, though Rhaegar did not give him chance to. "Welcome, my son," the King said, his eyes flicking then to the other two. "Lord Eddard, Lord Robb, I thank you for escorting my son so far."

"Your Grace," the two Starks spoke.

"I trust your journey was easy, Jon," King Rhaegar said.

"It was, Your Grace," spoke Jon, his voice quiet though carrying, rough with his Northern tongue. "Your realms were kind to us."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Rhaegar, standing from the throne and walking down its height. "Now, I am sure you will wish to rest and wash. Servants will show you to your rooms."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Jon replied, surprise colouring his voice. Elia was relieved to know that he too was kept in the dark regarding what was happening.

"Rest well, Jon, for I hope for you to join me for an evening meal," Rhaegar said, a smile on his features. "We will have much to discuss."

With that, the King left the court and so did the masses. Jon, however, did not quickly follow. He lingered for a moment, his eyes searching the crowd in quiet consideration, until he stopped at Elia.

As he met Queen Elia, Jon's eyes glinted in the candlelight and the wild  _rage_  was there for her to see, rolling in waves in his stormy, grey eyes like the ripples of Valyrian Steel. There was suppressed fury to the man before her, a  _powerful_  fury. Elia was  _stunned._

Jon left then, and so too did all of the oxygen in Elia's lungs.

* * *

Elia was not directly invited to attend the evening meal, though she still found herself going. She was the Queen, she reasoned, and she appear bitter if she did not.

Jon was prompt in his arrival, though he was not chaperoned by his family, upon Rhaegar's direction no doubt. He was to be alone with Targaryens, with Aegon and Rhaenys being the only other parties sat at the table. The two siblings were folded upon one-another, their bodies simply the vessels for one spirit. They moved as if their sides were joined, each action felt by the other. There was a tragic beauty in the sight for Elia, for they were soulmates, of that there was no question, yet they still were both of Elia.

In kindness, Rhaegar stood as he arrived, ushering Jon toward the empty seat opposite to himself. There was shock playing upon Jon's mesmerising eyes, though of what Elia could not be sure. The opulence and grandeur of King's Landing was a great deal to take in at the best of times and he could be forgiven for being overwhelmed at a great deal of things he might have seen.

"Thank you for joining, Jon," Rhaegar said. "I'd like to introduce your siblings, Aegon and Rhaenys."

They stood then, taking one-another's hands as they did. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, brother." Aegon said, a smile taking his face, a hope in his eyes that Elia hadn't seen in a good while. At eighteen, the boy was of age and, being as he was, could not have desired the throne any less. He'd once mentioned to Elia that he longed for the days of old where the Targaryen family tree grew wild and sprawling, if only so that his succession would leave the throne for a finer suitor.

"Thank you, Your Graces." Jon said, a cough in his voice. His clothes were in the plain, practical stylings that the North preferred, though surrounded by the silks and embroidery of the South, there was an appreciable simplicity to them. And, for Jon, the clear black drew out the sharp, distinctive grey of his eyes and highlighted the pale beauty of his skin.

King Rhaegar smiled, warm. "I do hope in time we may become more than simply graceful in your eyes," he said, a sip of wine at his lips. "Now, I must apologise first. For not being the Father I ought to have been."

Jon's red lips pressed into a line, though his eyes began their swirling storm. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"My place will always be the Red Keep, though until now yours unfortunately has been in the North where your mother asked you be raised," Rhaegar continued. Jon's eyes flicked toward Elia at the mention of his mother, for which Elia stilled. "But I think that now is the time for you to take your place, with your family, here."

Jon allowed the air to settle for a moment. "With respect, Your Grace, my family is in Winterfell and it has been my home for all of my life. I had hoped to settle there."

"And, with respect, there are far better uses for a child of mine than to fight Wildlings and grow cold," Rhaegar replied, the mask of indifference upon his face. A face mirrored by Jon, though Rhaegar's was far more believable, for Jon could not hope to rid his eyes of their expression. "So I will say, as your father and your King, that you are to be here."

Jon took a sip of his goblet, as if to hide his anger. Aegon and Rhaenys had began their usual game of pretending to have a conversation between themselves. Elia herself did not see the use of subterfuge; there was to be no doubt as to where the focus lied.

"What would you have me do, Your Grace?" Jon asked, quietly, his Uncles' calm influence apparent in his even tone.

"There can never be too much family, my son," said Rhaegar, ignoring, for convenience, the absence of Viserys and Daenerys. "I would have you here as an adviser to your siblings and, when the time comes, a man of house Targaryen, with lands and a family of your own."

Jon sat back, a frown upon his face. "I am not of noble birth, Your Grace," he said, his eyes fixed upon his plate. "And a Targaryen bastard besides. I do doubt many would be happy for me to be in such a position."

Rhaegar smiled. "You are not Daemon Blackfyre and Aegon is not Daeron II," he said. "I, from your Uncle’s writings, know that you have grown to be a good and an honourable man, even in the highly honourable eyes of Eddard Stark."

"Thank you, Your Grace." said Jon, red rising in his cheeks.

"I have done a great unkindness to your family, for doing with Lyanna as I did, and to you, for robbing you of a mother," continued Rhaegar, a solemn look in his eyes. "The Targaryens owe the Starks a great deal and it is my hope that our union,  _you_ , may be the chance to wipe away some of the debt."

Elia was taken aback, as were her children. It was so rare for Rhaegar to mention Lyanna, or their time together. For him to even mention the Rebellion was rare, the sole reminder he wore was the lame shoulder upon which Robert Baratheon struck him before Ser Barristan Selmy could save him.

"Tragedy struck your family upon my Father's doing. His hate is a phantom upon our family, Jon. It is my hope that, through you, I may be able to rid myself of another phantom. I would name you Prince Jon Targaryen, first of your name, and Lord of Summerhall."

Shock played upon Jon's face; the first true expression he'd displayed. Neither Aegon nor Rhaenys were shocked, though.

"I do not know what to say, Your Grace." said Jon, as he drew back his composure.

"Then accept, my son," Rhaegar said. "You were never meant to live the life of a bastard. You were intended to be a Prince of the realm, to live alongside your siblings and to honour our family. Had it not been for the Faith's decree of my second marriage, that would have been so. I can only try to make amends now, as this shall do."

"But what about succession?" Jon asked. "I cannot imagine the people would want a bastard in contention for the throne, should the need arise."

"Jon, you fall behind Aegon and Viserys, both of whom are betrothed and are soon to be wed," Rhaegar said, smiling with humour. "There is precious little chance of that ever causing an issue. My son, I think you are fast running out of reasons as to say no. This is your birthright, as it has always been. Allow me to offer you the honour you are owed."

Jon grew silent. Elia watched as a war was fought in his beautiful, grey eyes. It was clear the boy wanted no part in the south; its customs, its honours, its people or its politics. However, the boy sat before the King of all of Westeros and one could not say no to a King, such was the nature of a King.

Aegon spoke, breaking the silence. "Jon, I do not know you, and that, I fear, is a great tragedy," he said, his tone even and practised. "I understand that you have family in the North and that you would not see yourself separated from them. I feel the same, for both Rhaenys and I are of Dorne, and that will always be our home. But our duty is here in the capital."

Elia smiled. At times, it did not feel as though her children were any more than extensions of Rhaegar, though she found herself touched at the sentiment, even if it was likely a tale told only for Jon's benefit.

"Do you fear you will not have a place here, Jon?" asked Rhaenys, her voice strange to Elia's ears. "That you will be viewed as a Northern savage, uncouth and alone?"

"I have heard the whispers in the capital, Your Grace," replied Jon, with a cough to clear his voice. "I know how your people talk of Northerners and I have enjoyed enough Lordly visits at Winterfell to know how you view my people."

"You say you have heard whispers of us, though we too have heard whispers," Rhaenys replied, her hand playing with a dark curl of her hair. "That you've taken down Wildling leaders in single combat. That you've protected your Lord uncle against outlaws, alone. There isn't a Lord north of the Neck that hasn't praised your ability with a blade."

"They exaggerate, Your Grace."

"In my experience, Northerners are not bedfellows with exaggeration or hyperbole, Jon," Rhaegar replied. "I can sense that you grow tired of words without weight. Perhaps I might offer you an inconvenient truth, in hope that you will be convinced?" Jon nodded. "I am a man incapable of defending himself, let alone a Kingdom. Aegon has inherited my love of books, though not my love for the joust. Viserys was born with a body for luxury, not for war."

Jon looked to Aegon, no doubt expecting some token resistance to his father's claims, though he found none.

"I am the King of Westeros and the seven kingdoms, but I am not the protector of the realm and I have not been for some eighteen years now," Rhaegar continued, pulling at his tunic to display his wound. It was a ghastly, compounded thing, with great gashes from where his armour had caved in. "With a weak leader, Westeros grows weak. Usurpers begin to talk in shadowy corners and the forces of Essos see us as easy pickings. Even now, the Greyjoys plot to succeed, to return to the Old Way. Our family needs strength and our Kingdom needs strength. Perhaps the whispers are lies and you are not who you are said to be, but if you are, you may be the difference between peace and war."

Jon stilled, his eyes forming their icy storm. "You ask of me something so great that it would be treason not to accept."

"I suppose I do," Rhaegar said, smiling. "I would not wish such a great weight upon the shoulders of my Lyanna's child, though yours may prove to be the only pair that might hold it."

Jon swallowed, his eyes closing for a moment.

"What will happen then, Your Grace?" Jon asked, his eyes flicking open again.

"On your eighteenth nameday, there will be a tourney held in King's Landing," Rhaegar explained. "You may enter, if you so wish. On that day, you will be crowned as Prince Jon, Lord of Summerhall, and we will feast to your honour. After your announcement, Summerhall shall begin refurbishment. In the meantime, you are to live within the Red Keep, to learn of your duties and to become a true part of our family."

"Will I be permitted visits of the North, of my family?" Jon asked.

Rhaegar laughed quietly. "You are not a hostage, my son. You may transit however you wish."

Jon's eyes turned to Elia then, and for a moment the rest of the world ceased to exist.

"Your Grace, would you find it acceptable for me to live in your household?" he asked, to the surprise of all at the table.

Elia found air in her lungs, after a moment. "Of course, Jon," she said. "I am Dornish, you remember. We do not hold the same prejudice that is shared throughout the realm. You are the brother of my children, in my eyes."

Jon smiled at Elia then and she knew that she had offered the correct statement, for she would enjoy life much more if it were blessed with smiles such as that one. Whatever worries of acceptance Jon held were going to be short lived, for questions of legitimacy and bastardry are oft forgotten when one looked as beautiful as Jon Snow did.

"Then I feel I have no choice but to accept, Your Graces." Jon said, his head bowing just slightly.

Rhaegar smiled more brightly then he had ever done in Elia's memory, his joy shared with his two true-born children. Such smiles usually meant that a trick had been played successfully or they had won at cyvasse. However, in Elia's mind, there were to be no losers at this table.

"Now, though you are not to be a Prince in the eyes of the public for a couple of moons, in the eyes of all that sit here, you are Prince Jon Targaryen, first of his name, and Lord of Summerhall," said Rhaegar, before raising his goblet. "To Jon Targaryen!"

They all chorused, before supping to their toast.

"I realise that such news will take time to be truly understood," Rhaegar said. "I would allow yourself the night to think on it and to come to me on the morrow with any questions you may have. You are to be assigned Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard for your protection; I am sure he will welcome any exercise you would wish to undertake."

Jon's lips pressed into a tight smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Now Jon, you are to be a Prince," Aegon said, the warm smile of a King on his face. "It is a Prince's honour never to have to utter the words 'Your Grace' ever again, if they so choose. I do hope you may begin uttering our names, for there are so few people that do."

"It may take some time."

"Then time it will take," Aegon said, standing with a weakness he did not often allow people to see. The realm at large had no knowledge of his frailty. "Now, if I am allowed to be excused, I fear tonight has held enough excitement."

"I would join you, brother," added Rhaenys, taking his arm as she stood, Aegon's face softening as she did. "Goodnight Jon."

With their exit, the meal had ended and Elia grew aware that her appearance there was a happy accident. There was unity between her husband and children, yet she found herself wholly unattached to them. She knew they had their schemes, though it felt disconcerting to be so separated from the wishes of her family.

However, she did not dwell on such a thought long, for the image of Jon was one that did not leave her quickly.

* * *

**JON**

 

Jon Snow had known few things in his life.

He knew the cold of the North. The kind that sank into your bones and did not leave, even in the height of summer.

He knew the blade, the song of steel against steel and the sorrowful victory of battle.

But more than those, he knew  _want_.

He grew to an adult wanting the love of a mother and the love of a father. Of a family to call his own. Of a chance to rise above his own station, to earn valour and glory, to earn his own name and to be more than the sorry result of the union that caused a million deaths.

And, the moment he saw Queen Elia, he  _wanted_ her.

And, like all else, he could not have her. For she belonged to his own father.

The morning after the meeting with his Father, Jon found himself at a loss of what to do. His uncle Ned and his cousin Robb had already left the capital the evening before, riding for the Reach. They had hoped to broker a betrothal between Lady Margarey Tyrell and Robb, or at the least Sansa and Lord Willas Tyrell, for the next winter was by all estimations a long one and the North would need as much grain as Highgarden could provide.

Jon had sent a raven in the night to Lord Eddard, detailing what King Rhaegar had spoke of. He knew the Lord of Winterfell would, if not agree, then at least empathise with Jon's acceptance. He himself had chosen honour and duty over desire and want, having wed Lady Catelyn over his own love Lady Ashara Dayne. Ned had mentioned to Jon that he feared the King would take Jon from the North, though not in the manner that Rhaegar has chosen to.

Dimly, Jon realised that his new position may even come as a boon for the Starks as the Tyrells would be even closer to the crown with such a betrothal. Though, in truth, all thoughts felt dim in the face of Queen Elia.

Jon had not seen a sight as beautiful as Queen Elia, with eyes as dark as a winter night and yet warmer than the springs of Winterfell. Her face was made for kindness, with soft, smiling lips and flowing curls of dark hair that Jon wanted nothing more than to stroke between his fingers.

He had known the rumours as to why Rhaegar had looked elsewhere in their marriage; that she was fragile, or that she did not catch his eye as others did. Yet Jon could not understand it, for he could not take his eyes away from her.

With little else to do, other than pine, Jon had taken up the King's offer of exercise in the Red Keep courtyard, Ser Arthur Dayne his much-overqualified bodyguard. The Kingsguard had said very little to Jon in greeting, though by his Lord uncle's telling, that was not unusual as the knight was not one for words.

Ser Arthur was tall, his shoulders broad and arms strong, his hair a dark grey being the only sign of any advanced age. He appeared as one might hope a knight to look: powerful, tall and handsome. Most striking though was not his looks, but the sword that he strapped to his back. Dawn.

By unlikely coincidence, all of the Kingsguard were to be found milling around courtyard, save only Lord Commander Hightower and Ser Loras Tyrell who were tasked with protecting the royal family. Sers Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister, Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne, all assembled there.

Ser Barristan approached Jon first, a warm smile on his greying, handsome face. He stretched out a hand.

"It is good to meet you, Jon," the old knight said as Jon shook his hand. "I fear I thought it prudent to shake your hand now, as before long I would find myself bowing to you."

Jon smiled. It was not a surprise that the Kingsguard were privy to last night's talk. If the reputation of spies was to be true, no doubt half of Westeros knew it too.

"It is good to meet you too, Ser Barristan." said Jon, his voice quiet so as to hide his nerves at meeting such a man.

"Now, I know in good time that you will meet and know all of my brothers of the Kingsguard, but I fear that Art has been itching for a fight too long for anything else," Barristan said, smiling at Ser Arthur. "Would you be willing?"

Jon nodded. "I'd be honoured." It was only sparring, after all.

Ser Barristan chuckled deeply. "I think you speak too soon, mayhaps."

Jon walked to the armoury, taking on a set of boiled leather armour and a thin longsword, the use of live steel unspoken but assumed. He had thought to use a greatsword, as was his usual choice, though the available weapons were too heavy to be wielded with any grace.

However, no equipment in the world could prepare him for the sight of Ser Arthur Dayne wielding Dawn, the white cloak of the Kingsguard at his back and greatness in his violet eyes.

"I wish you good luck, Your Grace," said Ser Arthur. "Let us begin."

Jon surveyed the surroundings for a brief moment. The Kingsguard had formed a circle as to keep their fighting contained, knowing smirks upon all of their faces.

Jon nodded. "Let's begin."

At once, life fell away and all that existed was Ser Arthur and his sword moving through the air like water through a river. Jon had not before seen a man that could move quite so quickly, yet with such composure and such strength. Each step held perfect balance and each strike perfectly measured. His face did not stir, he did not change expression and at no point did he break sweat, even in the summer sun.

Thankfully, the rumours of Jon Snow were not false.

Ser Arthur was larger, a man past grown and a great man besides, but Jon was swift and agile. If Ser Arthur was the river, then Jon was the winter snow, everywhere at all times. For each thrust of Dawn, Jon proved too quick to hit. For each step Arthur made, Jon made two.

Yet still, each hit Ser Arthur gave hurt thrice more than any Jon could ever hope to give. Ser Arthur, with Dawn in its glorious arc, could not be contained forever. It was not long before Jon was forced backward, his lightning quick hands forced to parry and dodge with no time at all to mount his own attack.

Jon worked hard to circle away, to find space and catch the great knight unaware, but Arthur Dayne was never unaware. Jon could only move his blade inches before Ser Arthur effortlessly parried it, forcing their range so that Dawn had its greatest advantage. Each slash of his longsword drew sparks from Dawn, the larger man using his great strength to throw Jon away the moment he grew into a useful position.

Never before had Jon experienced a talent like the one that fought him then. No one came even close. His sword was an extension of himself, its motion perfect, as though it weighed no more than the air it cut through. Jon knew the knight to be holding back too, for many times he could easily have delivered the killing blow if it were not for his honour. Jon, for all of his life, had no clue of what to do next.

High and low, Arthur swung, his arm in constant motion and Jon never had a single moment to rest. Jon was swift, and swiftness was his one saving grace then, but he could only react. Ser Arthur was a force of nature, an untameable force of will and even the Gods could not hope to stop him when he held a blade.

And, all too soon, Jon's sword arm grew tired under the constant barrage and the baking southern sun and he could not block Dawn truly, forcing Jon to one knee. Jon looked up to see Ser Arthur hovering above, yet another swing on the way, the same easy smile upon his face.

Jon ground himself, forcing his heels into the ground and pushed against the strike with all of his will. His arms burned and his body ached from half a thousand hits he'd taken, his eyes near-blind from the sweat and his chest aching at the strain on his body. But he pushed.

Their blades met in the middle, the song of swords thrumming through the air. Arthur, with his greater height and his greater strength, was destined to win, his sword forcing its way through Jon's guard.

Jon met eyes with Ser Arthur, his eyes telling Jon to yield, but Jon could not.

Jon had not travelled for months to be called weak before the Southerners. He hadn't taken down Wildling parties single-handedly to be so readily bested by a southron knight. And, he hadn't promised his life away here without at least making his family proud.

And so, as Dawn crept closer to Jon, he only had one option. With his one free hand, he punched Arthur's unguarded face, the attack a surprise to the older knight, and Jon felt a pop beneath his fist that brought a grin to his face. Arthur fell back then, losing his balance for the first time, rushing to force his feet beneath himself, his mouth losing its easy smile.

Oddly though, he did not grimace as blood seeped from his nose and into his mouth. He laughed comfortably instead.

Ser Arthur moved quicker than Jon thought it possible for a man that large to move then. He was perhaps only a shade slower than Jon himself. 

 _This_ , this was Arthur's best, Jon realised, and no man alive had any hope to contend with it.

In a matter of seconds, the side of Dawn found its way to Jon's shin, tripping his feet from underneath him, forcing his spine flat against the courtyard and driving the wind from his lungs. Ser Arthur hovered above him then, his face that same, calm smile as before, without a single bead of sweat upon his brow. He did not threaten with Dawn, for it was wholly unnecessary.

"I yield." said Jon, resignation in his voice.

Ser Arthur offered him a hand, a nod of respect offered to Jon as he did.

"You need not feel ashamed, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, his voice warm and kind as Jon stood to his feet. "I cannot remember the last time Art tasted blood."

Ser Jaime came forward then, an amused smile on his face, though to Jon it seemed misplaced. "A fine performance, Your Grace. Such a chivalrous act, to punch a Knight in a swordfight."

"It worked, did it not?" asked Ser Barristan, rhetorically. "He holds no knighthood. He's not beholden to chivalry and he'd be foolish to pretend to be."

"You fought well, Your Grace," Ser Arthur said, Dawn returning to it's scabbard. "You are quick and in time you will be strong and that is what made the difference today."

"Thank you, Ser," Jon said, though he still felt downcast, as he always did when he lost in sparring. Even on the brief occasions he sparred with his Lord uncle and the wise, older man outwitted him, he still could not shake the disappointment.

"You will be great, in time," said Ser Arthur. "Allow yourself time."

Ser Barristan put his hand upon Jon's shoulder. "Art makes a child of anyone he fights, Your Grace. Truly, he is greatness beyond greatness."

Ser Jaime scoffed derisively. "In sparring with him, you are braver than Loras Tyrell is at least," he said. "The boy always find a dark corner to hide in if ever Arthur goes."

"Do not listen to him, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan. "Jaime is only jealous as these days its Loras who wins all of the tourneys and turns the maiden's heads."

"I do doubt Loras cares about the latter." muttered Ser Jaime, quiet enough for the words to be half-heard.

For Jon though, his disappointment was short-lived, forgotten for an odd comfort he felt. To be around warriors, taunting each other and discussing matters of arms, was a life he'd lead in Winterfell. Their voices were softer, without the rough accent of those North of the neck that Jon himself held, a voice that still held some of the old tongue, but the words they spoke were much the same.

All such talk was silenced though, for each member of the Kingsguard fell to their knees as King Rhaegar appeared at the balcony that hung above the courtyard.

"Rise, Sers," said Rhaegar, his face a mask of indifference as he looked toward Jon. "I had only hoped to watch my son spar."

Jon did not hear what the King said, though, for his interest lied only on Queen Elia, who stood beside the King. He could not help but look toward her, his focus immovable. Her beauty is impossible to ignore, her dark hair gilded by the morning sun, her mouth smiling at the face of the new day.

Jon could only pray to the Gods that he might greet each and every day with a sight so beautiful.

Queen Elia's eyes did not leave him either though, her dark eyes holding his. Jon was  _enthralled_  by those dark eyes, for they held such beauty and such kindness and such sweetness. He wanted to stare at her body, at the slight, soft strength that she held, but he could not dare look away from those eyes.

"I am glad to have been reaffirmed of what I have long expected," King Rhaegar said, breaking Jon's fascinated stare. "You are to be what our family has long called for, Jon Targaryen."

Jon nodded, knowing not what to say. He did not truly care for what King Rhaegar intended.

He'd known few things of his mother. That she was as good at riding as any man living. That she was as beautiful as the winter rose. But, most of all, he knew that she was  _wild_.

She ran off with another woman's husband because she  _wanted_  to. She fought with boys and men and anyone who came in her way because she  _wanted_  to. She wanted deeply and she loved fiercely and she thought freely. She was born with the blood of the wolf coursing through her veins and it ran  _deep_.

With Jon, as with Lord Eddard, they'd said that the wolf's blood had frozen in their veins. But, when Jon looked at Elia, he could feel the fire in his heart begin to burn its bright fire and thaw the ice that had formed around his wolf's blood and he was born anew. Amidst the fire and the blood and the ice, he was born again.

Because, when he looked at Elia, he knew  _want_. And what Jon wanted, he was going to take.


	2. Chapter 2

The Red Keep was a grand place, filled with all manner of curiosities and curious people, from Kings to beggars and everything in-between, though Elia did not seem to run into any such people. She always found Jon.

It was not a horrid situation for the Queen, for there were certainly worse things to find seeing often, especially as he so often seemed brightened by seeing her, the solemn cast of his face thrown away, for a brief moment. Truly, with his unwillingness in being in the capital, his face was one of the few that she could be sure were not telling lies. Jon himself was not the problem, though. Elia herself was.

For each time she turned around the corner and saw him, she could no longer trust her own heart, for it began to skips beats and thrum through her skin as though it threatened to burst out. Elia thought herself ridiculous. She was a grown woman, of two children and a Queen besides, yet the sight of a beautiful boy still sent her own heart into misuse.

She knew it not to simply be the pretty picture that his appearance painted, as the wind took hold of his curls and swept them away, though it was compelling. On some days she had the misfortune of stumbling upon his sparring, armour dispelled as the heat grew too much for Jon's northern complexion, his undershirt clinging to his lithe frame, and though her eyes did look for more than could be considered proper, that was not the problem.

The issue was not how she looked at him, but how he looked at her. How those gorgeous, grey eyes stared at her; as though all of the world melted away, just because Jon willed it so. He looked at her like he'd fought half the world to look at her and he'd fight the other half to look at her again. Like she was a miracle he'd begged his Old Gods for. She'd mistaken his gaze for rage, yet his eyes blazed a storm far greater than that. It was  _want_.

And it was all made worse by her wanting him.

Elia knew what she saw, as there was to be no doubt in Jon's eyes. He knew exactly what he wanted; her. But she also knew him to be a young man, and young men burn their fire at many hearths. Doubtless, he lusted for a thousand maidens between the Wall and her. He was beauty beyond beauty, he likely had his choice of women before he knew what women even were. Yet, even after all such thoughts, she still wanted that look to be for her, and only her.

Her own marriage had not seen any fire for a longer time than it would be appropriate to count. She was not suited for pregnancy, her hips wide but her frame small, and the Maester said that another dragon may yet be the end of her. After the news, Rhaegar's interest soon disappeared. And, beside that, Rhaegar was a great many things, but a passionate lover was not one of them.

There was a candle burning inside Rhaegar, but it was not one for sensual evenings and nights spent together. His candle burned for books, for learning, for his family. In truth, that was why Elia found herself so greatly surprised by his affair with Lyanna Stark, though it would become immediately apparent that, as with all things for Rhaegar, it was for his family.

Elia had grown into a woman, a beautiful, caring woman, and yet no candle had ever burned for her. Not truly. And, for just a moment, she wanted that feeling desperately, yet the first person to truly burn for her could not ever, ever burn be allowed to. She was the mother to his siblings. The Queen of Westeros. It could not happen.

So, when Jon came, with his storming eyes and his beautiful  _want_ , she ran.

Elia could not run forever though, or even for very long at all, it seemed.

Elia had awoken to the sun. Her duties for the day were limited and so she allowed herself the luxury, knowing it to be the only luxury the day would grant her. She'd even taken to having her meals in her own chambers, lest Rhaegar invite Jon for a meal, as he had began to in a bid to ingratiate himself with his son. Rhaegar's presence would shift Jon's focus slightly, though it did not rid her of the temptation.

Elia had hoped that Jon would awaken, as he'd began to, by sparring with the Kingsguard. Elia had made a special effort to avoid such a sight after the first time, when he'd looked at her and it all began. She made an effort to avoid the courtyard at any time Jon would be there, in fact. As such, she found herself doing a great deal of her duties then, if only so that she'd be forced away from Jon.

However, Jon was altogether too wilful for such structure and, as she found herself discussing Jon's own forthcoming feast with their master cook, Jon arrived too.

Jon's face held surprise as he caught sight of her, his grey eyes widening briefly, only to give way to that wondrous, wanting tempest as he took her in. Jon could not help but take her in, it seemed, his beautiful eyes ravenous for the sight of her. And God, did she want that too.

Fortunately, she was saved from her own fate by one of the cooks. A fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of a similar age, spotted him, and bolted across the room with a bright grin across her face.

"Did 'e like 'em?" the fair-haired girl asked, her voice one of the capital's poor. She peered up at Jon expectantly, eyes wide and hopeful.

Jon's eyes never left Elia, though. "Er…yeah," he said, distantly.

The girl's eyes never lost their glimmer. "Well, I got some more, if you'd like, Ser?"

Jon did not even react to her.

"Ser?"

Then, Jon did move, jumping just slightly, though by his usual stoicism it was like he'd gone through the ceiling.

"Yeah, of course."

Elia wished to move, to leave and to never return, but she could not.

"Your Grace?" Jon asked then, his voice even, though his eyes were screaming  _want_  at her. "Might you be able to escort me to my chambers?" Jon's lips quirked just slightly. "With me moving, I don't think I know where I'm supposed to be."

Elia wanted to refuse him, yet she could not with the staff watching on. She flicked her eyes to the ground, a brief reprieve from his unfailing eyes.

"Of course, Jon," Elia replied, after steadying herself.

And, with little else to do, she followed him out of the kitchen. Jon did not offer his arm, for Elia would never have taken it, though he did walk with only the smallest of spaces between them. He wore a dark grey tunic, his hair still damp from washing, the scent of winter roses upon his skin.

"I do hope I'm not imposing, Your Grace," said Jon, as they walked beside one another. "I'd hoped that we might be able to speak."

Elia found herself shocked, his mouth telling a different story than his eyes, as she fought to retain her composure. She wished to do so many things; To scream, to shout, to cry. But to talk calmly was the last thing she wished.

"I'm sorry, I did not intend on ignoring you," said Elia, making peace with her life then. She did not flick her eyes toward Jon as she spoke, lest she speak irrationally, instead her eyes steadfast remained toward her destination. "I've been kept busy as of late."

Jon chucked low in his throat. "I do hope I haven't been weighing upon you too heavily, then."

Elia's ire at the world rose. "Not at all," she said, her small hands balling into fists. "Your presence has been a welcome surprise."

"You don't have to say that for my benefit," Jon said, his voice rueful. "I know that my presence is often a pain. Even in the North that was true."

"I had thought you enjoyed your time there?" asked Elia, her frustration forgotten for a moment.

"I did," Jon said, with a nod. "Yet, I was a Targaryen bastard, and the North's favourite daughter died for me to be born. A lot of people looked at me as though I personally started the war. Which I did, in a way."

Elia's feet slowed, her eyes looking up to Jon. "Does the North not love you now, though?"

"It does, though I had to earn it," Jon said, his hand instinctively going to the handle of a sword that was not there. "I nearly died ten times over to prove myself to people who would sooner have killed me in the crib."

"So why would you wish to stay there?" Elia asked, scarcely believing what she heard.

"Because that's my home," Jon said, his voice gruff then. "And I know all the other seven kingdoms hate me just as much. At least my people are honest about it."

Elia stopped, her hand on Jon's arm, forcing him to face her. He gazed down at her then, his eyes wide as he stood so close to her. Elia stared back, her warm, dark eyes totally guileless.

Without a thought, Elia brought her hand to rest gently upon Jon's cheek, her soft skin against his trimmed beard.

Without a thought, Jon leaned into Elia's hand, his eyes closing slightly as he sank into her touch.

"Jon, I am saying this truthfully," Elia began, her red lips curving in a warm smile. "You are welcome here, with us. With me."

"So, why do you leave when I come?" Jon said, his grey eyes storming.

Elia's breath caught. An unspoken conversation played in their eyes. Elia tried to retain her composure, to remain steadfast, to not give in to her want.

But she could not.

She gave in to Jon. She wanted Jon. And she wanted Jon more than she wanted to do what was right.

Jon knew that, then. But he was a good enough man not to take her where she stood. A slight smile came to his face. She was weak and Jon wanted her so very badly, but he did not take her as he so easily could. Elia could not thank him enough for that kindness.

Jon raised his hand to her, to guide one of her stray curls behind her ear and Elia shivered at the touch, settling into it just slightly. Oh God, had she missed the touch of another. And, by the Gods, did she want his touch.

Jon smiled brightly then, the beginnings of dimples at his cheeks, and Elia was in awe of the beauty of the man before her, the wondrous mixture of youthful grace of his body and the brilliance of his deep, grey eyes.

Jon's hand came to the small of her back then, guiding her toward their destination.

"So," Jon began. Now that she did not need to hide, Elia found herself comfortable in his presence, her fists unfurling. "Honestly, how will people take my appointment?"

"You would be amazed at how quickly people forget their long held grievances, Jon," Elia said, her heart settling. "Hate is a seed and a man's discontent is the flower. Give them a fairer flower to look at and they shan't notice you pulling the roots."

"Really?" Jon asked.

"You would be too young to remember this, but the year after the Rebellion was the closest the Kingdoms came to a revolution," Elia explained, her mind in quiet realisation that this was to be the first time another person had asked her counsel in quite a few years. For Jon to be one such person warmed her. "So, Rhaegar lowered taxes to almost nothing and the Tyrells offered a great deal of their grain in charity. Soon, the smallfolk were too happy with their lives to worry about ours."

"That seems temporary, though, doesn't it?" Jon asked, his hand still at the small of Elia's back. Elia fought the urge to lean into his touch like a besotted girl.

"At the risk of saying empty platitudes; life is temporary," Elia said, her dark eyes twinkling as she smiled at Jon. "Better to enjoy it and recognise the things that truly matter, not the empty things that don't."

Elia and Jon found themselves at Jon's chambers. Wordlessly, Jon opened the door and Elia followed him in.

"So what matters to you, Elia?" he asked. Elia nearly jumped at hearing her name fall from Jon's mouth, her stomach beginning to flutter as Jon remained so very close to her. So close that she could feel the heat pour from his side. She wished to reach out, to take his hands and place them on her curves and to feel that heat upon her.

Elia blinked up at Jon, her pupils dilating until all Jon could see was a black well of want.

"My family." she said. Then the world came crashing to a halt.

She could not do this with Jon. He was her children's brother. He was her own husband's son. He was to be the Kingdom's prince, not her consort. He was beautiful but she was a woman grown, her life existed beyond shallow beauty and want. She was a mother, a queen. She was not just some wanton whore, subject only to desire.

But she was. Then, stood in front of him, she was none of those things. She was Elia Martell. She was not a grown woman, she was a young girl over again. And she wanted Jon.

She'd spent her days raising her children and caring for others, yet no one seemed to ever care for her. Rhaegar hadn't spared her a thought in years and her children were fast becoming younger versions of their father.

And here was Jon. Jon looked at her, even as no-one else did. For the first time in her life, she was the only who mattered. Jon  _wanted_  her. And Gods did she want him.

Elia closed her eyes and leaned in. Jon closed the gap, pressing his lips against hers, his strong hands at her hips, holding her close. Jon tasted like pinewood and winter roses and he felt so strong, so powerful, so right as he held her.

Elia threaded her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. She did not even dare draw breath, lest she lose the feeling of his touch upon her. She wanted his hands everywhere. She wanted his touch everywhere, to feel that brilliant heat on every inch of her skin. For so long she'd been forced to go cold; she  _needed_  Jon to warm her.

Jon moaned against her lips, the noise coming from deep inside his throat, and Elia needed him all the more. His hands dragged their way against her skin, one coming to hold her face and she fell into his touch. She wanted more, more, more.

Jon pulled away, his lips coming to her jaw and pressing soft, needy kisses there, his breath coming short as he took in Elia rather than oxygen. Elia moaned, her mouth against his ear, his mouth sending shivers racing through her, her stomach twisting with desire.

Jon's mouth came to her throat, his lips pressed at her neck and Elia felt her legs weaken, only standing as Jon held her firm in his strong arms.

He kissed a path from the base of her neck to her ear. "I want you," he moaned.

"I want you too," Elia returned, her voice soft and high and weak. "But we can't do this now. Somebody might see."

Jon hand came to her waist, his hand firm against her soft curves, his beard tickling the soft skin of her neck. "I need you, Elia," he said, pressing himself against her. "I need to feel you."

Elia's hands came to his chest, pushing him away softly. "Gods do I need you too, Jon," she said, her mind returning to her, as before her mind was entirely his. "And you will have me, I promise you. But not now."

Jon's eyes, his beautiful, grey eyes, stormed and for a moment, Elia would've given up everything for Jon.

"You promise?" Jon asked, his voice scarcely a whisper, though Elia could feel the words in her bones.

"I promise," Elia said, then took his bottom lip into hers, greedy for him. "But there are things that mean more to me than whatever this is. You must understand this."

"I do," he said, a hand running through his curling hair. "But you are the only good part of being in the south. You have to forgive me for wanting you beyond all else."

Elia's dark skin hid her blush well. "That might be the case, but it won't be forever," she said, mostly to herself. "You'll soon find yourself a pretty paramour and I will be dust in the wind. I will just be one of your passing fancies, I'm sure."

"Elia, I don't have passing fancies, whatever they are," Jon said, his red lips smiling. "Before I was ordered here, I was going to take the black and live with my uncle Benjen. There's only been you."

"I can't believe it," Elia said, with a laugh. "You are saying that I'm your first?" Jon nodded. Elia smiled. "One as beautiful as you cannot have lived your life alone."

"There isn't a woman, whore or highborn, that would even go near me," Jon explained, his eyes falling to the floor. "Not if they might sire Daemon Blackfyre when they do."

Elia could not stop herself from taking his mouth in hers, kissing away his solemn look. "When they might sire Targaryens, I promise that will be different," she said, her hand at his cheek, her thumb softly stroking there.

"I don't care about that. About them," Jon said, his hand coming to hold hers. "I only want you. Only you. And I will do anything to have you."

Elia's breath caught in her throat. "Then allow me to come to you, when I am ready," she said, steadying herself. "And do not be afraid to see the world before you see me. I will not be offended if you do."

"I can promise the first part," Jon said, kissing her softly. "Though the second part I think is impossible."

"Why's that?" Elia asked.

"Because they don't compare to you," Jon said, his eyes a tempest as he looked at her. "No one does."

"Then this is the greatest challenge you will face," Elia said. She did not know why she was saying what she was, for she wanted nothing but Jon. She wanted him, and she wanted him to want her. Yet still she spoke, her words betraying her. "I cannot be your first."

"Elia, please," Jon asked of Elia, his hands firm against her skin. "I do not want anything else, but you."

"And you will have me," Elia said. Inwardly, she wanted to stop herself. To say anything other than what she said then, but she couldn't. Her mouth no longer belonged to her. "But first you must know the truth of what you say. I will not move on this."

Jon looked as though he wished to scream and to curse at the Gods. "Must I go through this every time I do something?" he asked, to no-one in particular. "Can I not just want something and then take it. Just once?"

Elia shook her head. "You are destined for greatness, Jon," she said, truth falling from her mouth for the first time in a while. "You were born with responsibility beyond the desires that all other men have. That is your misfortune."

"Fine," Jon said, his face falling into a mask of composure, a look so reminiscent of Rhaegar, and Elia wanted desperately for Jon to return. But she knew he could not. "If this is how I get to have you, then I will."

Elia left soon after then, before her resolve left her. She had given herself time to return to her senses, to gain the strength she lacked, to be woman she needed to be. Hopefully, Jon would grow fascinated with girls younger and prettier than her. But, foolishly, Elia wanted him not to.

However, Elia knew what she must do. She rushed to her own chambers and to her desk, quickly composing a letter to her oldest friend; Ashara Dayne.

When they were younger, there hadn't been a living head that hadn't turned when Ashara passed by, her beauty magnetic and utterly incomprehensible. Men killed one another for the chance to hold her hand. Men killed one another if it meant that she might turn her violet eyes toward them.

Growing up, Elia had found such beauty slightly irritating, for Elia was so often befriended in order to be closer to Ashara. But now, such beauty was to be the same blessing for Elia as it was for everyone else.

Perhaps Jon would be a blessing for Ashara, too, for he was perhaps the only man as beautiful as she was. And, his blood was of the North, just as her former paramour Lord Stark's was.

Perhaps, in time, Elia might even be able to happy about that.

* * *

Dawn broke with the sound of steel clanging.

Jon had not slept well, or rather he had not slept at all, for he was so furious at himself. To have Queen Elia so close, yet so very far, forbade him from any rest.

He knew that she wanted him, just as he wanted her. Yet she still she said no, clutching upon hollow responsibilities. Jon had seen the look in her dark eyes as they kissed. He knew then what she truly wanted.

After, he'd gone to the Godswood and spoken to his Gods, to ask why they would offer him his current fate. The trees had stared back, blankly, and they offered nothing.

He wished, for once, for something he wanted to come to him. Robb had his Lordship, his life of power and importance. He was born for such a role. And Sansa would no doubt be married to a Lord Paramount and his own Targaryen siblings had one-another. Yet the one thing he desired beyond all else, he did not get.

But, Jon did care for Elia. He would do as she asked. Even if such a thing was the last thing he desired.

As the Sun came up, Jon found himself pouring with sweat and forewent his armour, content to simply beat away his frustration with a blade and a mannequin. He'd hoped that, perhaps, Ser Arthur might join him for a spar though he had declined, being as it was the middle of the night and he would need his wits should someone come to attack.

Thankfully, the monotony was broken as a new set of footsteps came into Jon's hearing.

"Do you wish to fight someone who might fight back, Your Grace?" asked Ser Loras, his sarcastic voice grating at Jon's morning ears.

Loras appeared undoubtedly beautiful, though not in the manner that one would expect knights to be. His hair was too long and in a true fight it would be used against him, though in his comfortable life it flowed lazily. His eyes stood large upon his pretty face, though their sight was clear, appearing like spun gold in the sun.

On his better days, Jon didn't know what to make of the knight. He was arrogant, though no more than Robb was at his worst. He cared more for how impressive he looked in his armour than he did in using it. He walked about as though he'd killed a thousand outlaws, though Jon knew that he himself had seen more battles than Loras had. Yet, there was kindness in him, for he always gave to the smallfolk and he was kind to the children that clung on to his white cape.

However, this was not one of Jon's better days, and so his arrogance grated against Jon's nerves like a sword against a grindstone and his shallow confidence made Jon want to punch the smirk from his face. He, like most southerners, grew up slower than the Northman Jon had been raised with. Loras had three years on Jon, yet he was more of a boy than Jon had ever been allowed to be.

"Whenever you're ready," Jon said, turning to face the Kingsguard with rage in his eyes.

Shock came into Loras'. Jon imagined he'd never expected such a challenge. His smirk did not leave, though.

"Don't you want to put some armour on, Your Grace?" Loras asked, with no intention to draw his sword, as he looked down at Jon's uncovered chest.

"Well you're not going to hit me," Jon replied, advancing on the knight. "So, no."

In truth, the choice was tactical. Loras was a tourney fighter, that being his only experience. Jon had watched him manoeuvre in such a manner with the other knights. He was used to having the speed advantage, to move when others were tired, to move faster than others could. He hadn't watched men cook themselves in their armour as they moved through mud, their armour killing them slowly, as Jon had done.

By the time Jon had made his way to Loras, the knight had drawn his sword - some gilded, uselessly pretty thing - and drawn to block. Jon had no time for games of patience then, he wanted to relieve the fury that coiled in his muscles and drove him mad, and Loras was to be the victim.

Jon was a blur of limbs as he mounted his attack, his bastard sword forceful against the ironwood shield of Ser Loras. Jon could feel the weakness of his blocking arm; he'd rarely been the nail, so often the hammer in battle. With each slash of his sword, Jon drove Loras back slightly, his full helm covering the shock in his eyes.

Jon knew that Loras had grown used to the respect he commanded as a Kingsguard, to see the awe in the eyes of the men he fought in tourneys. Jon had shown him none. He was no Arthur Dayne, nor was he even Jaime Lannister. He was a pretty boy who'd lived an easy life, and Jon was going to teach him a lesson that life ought to have.

Loras fought to return a volley, though he found his legs too slow against Jon's light steps, his sword stopped by Jon's at every turn. Soon, Jon swiped at Loras' shield and it slid from his arms, forcing Loras to fight with only his sword.

"Don't be afraid to hit me, Ser," Jon said, as Loras' shield clattered to the ground. "I'm not your Prince yet."

Loras lifted his helmet from his head, throwing it away. "And don't be afraid to hit me hard either, Your Grace," he said, a mocking smirk upon his face. "I've not felt a thing."

The Kingsguard needed goading to want a proper scrap, Jon had found. Loras, it seemed, was no exception.

Loras held a deceptive strength, his arms lithe yet he held his over-heavy longsword with much grace. He had not truly grown into his body, though even then he was strong. His sword arm was strong, never yielding to Jon's own, and his own attack was enough to earn caution from Jon. In time, he could be great.

But he did not have the time upon his side. He was slower than Jon and that was all that mattered then. All the more, Ser Loras was uncomfortable with a sword, his hands built to hold lances. He was made of strong steel, but it had not yet been tempered. He was a summer child. A southern, summer's child.

Quickly, Jon drove himself into a flurry, his arms fast as he forced Loras into total confusion. Before long, Loras could not keep up, and Jon tripped him with his sword, forcing him to the ground.

"I yield," Loras said, his voice quietly accepting. "You're good."

"You're not." Jon replied, his former ire still not yet gone. Still, he offered Loras a hand.

Loras laughed. "No, I suppose I'm not. With a sword, at least," he said, standing up with Jon's assistance. "When you're as good as I am with a lance, you can afford to be bad at other pursuits."

Jon shook his head in exasperation. "And when you're in a battle and your horse gets killed. What then?"

"I suppose I've got you to protect me," Loras said, with a laugh. Everything was a joke to him, it seemed. Jon wanted to spar with him again, if only so that he could punch him.

Jon wanted to scream. "Aren't you afraid?"

Loras laughed yet again. "Of what? Some swineherd's son with a rusted sword coming to kill me?" he asked, mocking. "Oh spare me, Your Grace. I've had enough of these conversations with Garlan. I'm better than every person I'm ever going to meet on the field. I don't intend on wasting my energy being any better than that."

"Then I suppose you're going to have to get used to the man you've sworn to protect putting you on your pretty arse," Jon said before walking away, throwing his sword to the floor.

* * *

Despite himself, Jon held no fear when he came to his father's quarters. He found himself oddly confident for it, in fact, for he knew that Elia would not breathe a word to Rhaegar.

His father had been insistent that Jon attend a small council meeting and, though Jon could not understand why, he welcomed the new activity. Jon arrived quickly in the throne room, though he did not feel comfortable there, just as he hadn't on the first day he arrived, the memory of his family's fate hanging about the air.

The Hand of The King, Lord Tywin Lannister, was there as Jon arrived. He sat tall within his chair, his back as straight as an arrow and his body stiff, his eyes piercing as he stared at Jon.

"Lord Lannister," Jon said. "I'm honoured to meet you."

"As am I, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said, his eyes not once shifting. "I imagine your Father has high aspirations with your invitation here. Do you share them?"

Jon shook his head. He'd heard a thousand and one things about the man, but the one that fell from every person's lips was that he was the last person to be on the wrong side of.

"My only aspiration is to protect my family." Jon said, his eyes not leaving Tywin's.

"You are wrong," Tywin replied, smiling a lion's smile. "They are high aspirations indeed."

The other councillors soon came. The King, Master of Coin, Prince Doran Martell, Master of War, Lord Stannis Bartheon, Lord Varys, Master of Whispers, Master of Ships, Lord Monford Velaryon and Lord Commander Hightower. They all shared the same fate of lateness and of faint annoyance at Jon's presence.

"My Lords, this is my son, Jon Snow," King Rhaegar said.

"My Lords." Jon said.

"Now, if we may begin," continued King Rhaegar. He sat upon the throne comfortably, as though it were his home, his lame shoulder perched upon the wall of swords. "Varys, what of the Ironborn?"

"They discredit you each day I'm afraid, Your Grace," said Lord Varys, the words coming out in fog-like whispers. "Balon Greyjoy talks of a Kingsmoot with conviction. As does Euron Greyjoy."

"Will the other Lords entertain the idea?"

"Without question," Lord Varys replied. "Many of the smaller islands have quietly re-introduced the old way. Well, as quietly as one may do that. Reavings increase each moon, Your Grace."

"Monford, what of their forces?" Rhaegar asked, sighing.

"They cannot match us on sea," Lord Monford said, his voice clear and confident. He was a handsome man with strong features, his age placing him as the King's peer. "The Velaryon fleet equals theirs. The royal fleet will crush it."

Lord Stannis shook his head. "Numbers are of no consequence," he said, his words brooking no argument. His appointment to the council had been in peacekeeping. A force against the old reign to protect the new. "The Ironborn fight like wild beasts. They care not for winning, only for how much damage they do and how much they can gain."

"They think the throne weak, Rhaegar," interjected Prince Doran. "They look to do enough damage so that we allow them to succeed."

"And your counsel?"

"They offer little," Prince Doran replied, his voice soft, his words careful. "The iron mines have produced precious little in recent years. Their taxes are low, their population is low. They rarely provide for the Night's Watch. Perhaps we are better off with six kingdoms."

"And tell Essos that we are children, ripe for them to steal from?" Lord Tywin asked, his voice a growl. "No, they are a disease, a disease we must kill before they are the end of us. Burn their salt throne and break their will until they cannot begin to think to rebel again. Let them be an example."

"If I act now, I punish the innocent," King Rhaegar said, after a moment's contemplation. "I will await their Kingsmoot or, failing that, I will await until Jon's coronation. Should they not swear fealty, they will be shown fire and blood."

"On the topic of Prince Jon," Prince Doran began. "You have not yet disclosed your exact desires on the celebration. With our long summer, we may afford quite the opulent affair."

"Jon," Rhaegar said, his focus shifting to his son. "Perhaps you have desires on this topic?"

Jon shifted slightly in his seat. It was almost unnerving, to be in focus of such powerful people.

"I don't want the smallfolk celebrating my name on that day, only to hate me later when they foot the cost," Jon said, his voice quiet. "I am a Northman. Extravagance wouldn't be fitting."

Rhaegar gave an acquiescing nod. "Then it is settled," he said, turning to Prince Doran. "A tourney and a feast. No mummer's farces, no great golden displays. Winter roses throughout the Great Hall."

"It will be done," agreed Prince Doran.

"Now, to the small matter of your engagement, Your Grace," said Lord Tywin, his voice clearing a din of chatter that had began within the council.

Jon blinked at the Hand. "Is it not early?"

"You are to be the Lord of Summerhall. A Lord needs a wife." Lord Tywin replied.

"Would it not be better to wait to see how my appointment would be taken, beforehand?"

"Your Grace, my little birds have spread the word around the kingdoms," said Varys. "You are more popular than you think. Lyanna Stark was much beloved."

Jon's eyes calmed, though not totally. Varys words did not lay comfortably; they were cloying, false.

"I know many Lords have already offered their daughter's hands," Rhaegar said. "Lords Hightower and Manderly, even."

The Lord Commander shifted at his name. Jon smiled at the thought of the Mermaid Lord. He was one of the few whom did wish him dead immediately, admittedly due to the fact that one day the Manderly name might be in the small council because of it. But Jon did not want his daughters. Jon wanted no woman other than Elia Martell.

"Your son is a handsome boy, Rhaegar," said Lord Velaryon, warm. "One good showing at a joust and it will be like bees with honey."

Tywin Lannister sat oddly quiet beside Jon. By right, Lord Tywin, the King's own hand, would offer his granddaughter, Myrcella, daughter of Edmure and Cersei Tully, whom was of similar age yet still he sat, silent. Jon looked at him at the corner of his sight, curious.

Jon knew her, albeit loosely. She'd visited her aunt at Winterfell once every two or three years. She was a sweet, pretty girl, whom Jon knew hadn't been matched yet.

"Lord Velaryon raises a good point," the Lion Lord said eventually. "Should events occur positively, Jon offers a strong possibility of strengthening…certain bonds in the kingdoms."

"Do you have any beliefs on the matter, son?" Rhaegar asked. Jon did not immediately realise that he was being addressed, the notion of Rhaegar truly being his father still a new and odd one.

"I can scarcely believe anything of what is going on," Jon replied. "I think finding a bride so soon might be rushing things."

"When we fight the Greyjoys, your marriage may make the difference in the war," Lord Stannis said. "Better to wait until it is most useful."

Rhaegar allowed the words to float over him. Jon was silently amazed, to think that at one stage the Lord Stannis was on the receiving end of one of the most horrific sieges in Westerosi history by King Rhaegar's hand, yet now Rhaegar still accepted his counsel.

"You words ring true, my Lord," Rhaegar said. "Now that the most pressing issues are beyond us. Lord Commander Hightower; any reports?"

"Ser Loras still has…teething problems," Lord Hightower replied. Jon swallowed his amusement, at Hightower's uncharacteristic care over his words and at the sentiment. "But he is young. In a few years, he will be better."

"My son was no different," Lord Tywin said. "The years bleed arrogance like leech on a vein. He simply needs to fail and then he will learn that he is no better than everyone else."

Jon looked to Lord Commander Hightower. Failure, it seemed, would not be the remedy, or Ser Arthur would've been the finest Maester in the Seven Kingdoms.

The meeting dispersed soon after, though Jon knew that there was an entire game played above the words that were spoken. He'd only been offered a glimpse at the balances of powerful men and he knew there were miles of history behind every syllable spoken.

Jon found himself fascinated by his father, though. By his own childish imaginings, he'd thought that King Rhaegar would hold court, yet he spoke only when necessary. He never spoke unless he needed to. He'd thought that the King would spend his days plotting, though that seemed to be preference of his own children.

It a took a village to raise a child. And it took a council to raise a kingdom.

* * *

Despite his father's words in the contrary, Jon had not truly been introduced to any great responsibility yet. His father, in passing, had let him know of the broad comings and goings of the Seven Kingdoms, though nothing truly important. His siblings had said nothing either, largely content to locking themselves in their rooms and entertaining one another.

It was surprising to Jon. He'd known life in the capital was shallow, though he didn't expect it to be quite so bad.

Beyond training, there was very little for Jon to do. King Rhaegar had ensured that he was not to be allowed into the city at large until his coronation and very little occurred within the gates of the Red Keep, save for life at court which was altogether abhorrent to Jon. And, Jon feared, there would be very little to do after he was coronated, either.

At Winterfell, it seemed like every day there was something to be done. Whether it was hunting or collecting firewood or riding or training, there was always something. Jon had his real family there, too, who wanted for his company and cared for him. At King's Landing, there was no-one, save for Elia, whom had offered him a thinly-veiled rejection, and Ghost, who rankled with being surrounded by so many people.

If he was to be in the capital, as he was forced to be, he wanted to do something with his time, be it to do good or just anything, if it meant to pass the time. Jon's room had been filled with books of every subject, though none were relevant beyond those which his Lord uncle had given to him before. He knew battle tactics, feudal histories and the battles of Westeros. Beyond that, little else mattered.

Lord Stark had replied to his raven, though it had taken many days, for negotiations with the Tyrells were becoming difficult. He'd said very little in the way of moral support, though the man very rarely offered that. He had mentioned that it was very unlikely that he or Robb would ever venture to King's Landing, so they would ensure that they were to be there for his coronation. He'd voiced his happy surprise at such an occurance, too.

Privately, Jon would've liked for his uncle to offer even token resistance against what had happened, though Lord Stark was not one that placed his own feelings before duty often.

Robb had said that he was annoyed that Jon suddenly had more power than him though, which brightened Jon's day.

Jon, then, for lack of a place, had opted for spending his hours in the Godswood. With its location in the capital, it was no true place of worship, but Jon was no true devotee. The weirwoods looked familiar, a temporary salve for the pang of homesickness he felt.

The ghost of Arya hung around him then as he sat within the woods. He'd spent half his childhood chasing her around the trees, playing games and laughing with one-another. Her face was the one truly carved amongst the weirwood.

He'd written a letter to her too, of course. He'd kept it brief, promising that he would see her again soon. He only hoped that was going to be true.

He thought of her then, as he enjoyed the peculiar peace that the woods held. He hoped that Arya's life was the opposite of his then. That she'd gotten friends around her, and that Ser Rodrik had allowed her to practice with the boys when Lady Stark wasn't paying attention. That the Septa hadn't forced her to sew until her thumbs grew numb. That she was happy.

Oddly though, the ghost of Arya, it seemed, had began to grow beyond his own head, as he saw a girl of a similar age run through the woods, hiding between the branches. There was worry in her body, Jon could be sure. She looked like Arya did when she was hiding from the Septa, her shoulders hunched and her hands hiding her tears, though it appeared worse on this girl.

For Arya held no true fear with regards to the repercussions of her actions. Lady Stark would not beat her, as Lord Stark did Robb or Bran. Yet, there was true fear in this girl's body, her back wracked with nervous shakes as she rushed to find a safe place to cry.

Eventually, she found a resting place for herself, a tiny section of grass just small enough so that she might curl her small frame within it. Jon worried for her.

She was small, from a distance she could've been a young age and this was simply a game she was playing, though Jon doubted that was the case. He knew what games in the Godswood looked like, and she did not look to be playing one. For a moment, he fought against the urge to help, for the southerners had wanted nothing to do with him and this would no doubt be more of that.

But Jon could not stop his mind worrying that he might be wrong, and so he approached her, his feet falling softly though he broke twigs as he walked, so that she would not be scared. No doubt the last thing she wanted was some stranger coming near her, Jon thought, but he would rather act and suffer the consequences than never act and worry.

As Jon approached her though, it became clear that it was not just any girl. Her hair was as pale as moonlight and, though she hid her crying eyes behind her hands, Jon still saw a flash of violet as he approached her.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked her, hunching his back and making himself small, his voice as soft as he could make it. Even so, the girl still jumped.

"You are not from here, are you?" the girl asked, to Jon's surprise, her voice in recollection.

Jon shook his head. "No, I'm from the North. Winterfell."

"Could you do something for me?" the girl asked, her violet eyes wide. Her voice betrayed her youth, for she may have been Jon's age but she was just a frightened girl then.

"I can try."

"Could you help me hide?" she asked, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress. "I just…I need to disappear for a little bit."

"Of course," Jon said, with a nod. He could not say no, as she was then. "May I ask why?"

Fear came into the girl's eyes, and Jon let it go without a word. He offered her a hand, helping her up, which she accepted, her arms slow to move, taking a hold of his tunic.

"Might I ask your name, then?" Jon asked, as she stood.

Her eyes widened. "You don't know who I am?"

"I'm afraid not," Jon said, with a small smile. He didn't know, he only suspected. "I think we probably should've been introduced before."

"I'm Daenerys," the girl said, her voice tiny. "Dany."

"I think you're my aunt, Dany," Jon replied, walking her from the Godswood and into the Red Keep. He was struck by the size of her. She was only a year younger, yet the top of her head came to his heart, and he knew that he could wrap both of his hands around her waist.

The corridors of the Red Keep bustled with activity, though it seemed like every noise agitated Dany. Whenever a cook raised their voice or a maid drop a hamper, a bolt would run through Dany's skin. It confused Jon, for a girl as famous as she was would have no doubt learned to live with noise, yet her footsteps were quick and quiet, her head on a swivel, restless until they reached the solace of Jon's chambers.

"Are you alright, Dany?" Jon asked, as Dany sat in his reading chair, though only after given permission. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, I promise," Dany said, her eyes inspecting Jon's carpet. "I'm just not familiar with the capital."

Concern filled Jon. "Nor am I," he said, attempting comfort, though he often lacked talent in the area. "I would've thought you were here all the time though?"

Dany shook her head. "Prince Viserys doesn't like being away from Dragonstone," she said, her eyes blank at the mention of her brother.

Jon didn't need talent to know what such a look meant, his concern morphing into sadness. He'd seen the look on Bran's friend Alastyr whenever his father, the blacksmith, was in a foul mood.

"Do you like it here?" he asked, his mind whirring with thoughts.

Dany nodded. "It's nice to be away from the island," she said, her voice sounding odd. "The weather here is warmer."

A peculiar knock came on the door; one which brightened Jon considerably, though Dany jumped for the noise all the same. Jon pulled the door open, letting Ghost in, and his friend jumped into his arms, the scent of the hunt upon him. Despite his appearance, he'd never truly grown beyond a puppy in personality, ever-joyful and excited.

He heard Dany's breath catch behind him, her feet scuffling against the carpet as she placed her chair between herself and Ghost.

"Don't be afraid, Dany," Jon said, his hand stroking at the wolf's soft fur. "He won't hurt you while I'm here."

She did not take a great deal of convincing, though Ghost truly broke away her fear, bounding over with his great strides and offering his fur to be played with. Jon enjoyed watching new people interact with Ghost as, despite his silence, he was a truly social animal. With Dany, it was no different, for Ghost welcomed her light scratches, her awe-filled eyes. She appeared transformed for a moment; no longer was she fuelled by fear.

Jon allowed her to be free, his mind again in quiet recollection of Arya. He remembered the day she'd been given her wolf, Nymeria, and the sheer joy she'd felt. She had a reason to go to the Godswood, to the Wolfswood, a reason to leave her life of sewing and her Septa's disappointed stares.

Another knock came upon the door that gave Jon worry, as did it Dany, destroying the spell that'd been placed upon her.

"Go into my solar." Jon whispered. Dany obeyed at once, Ghost going with her by Jon's silent command.

Jon opened the door, revealing whom he'd feared it would be; Prince Viserys Targaryen, with Ser Barristan and Ser Oswald, his protectors. The elder Prince walked into Jon's room without invitation, his shoulder pressing against Jon's as he did so.

"So, you're the bastard," he began, an adult's voice holding a child's whining wit. "I don't believe you've had the pleasure. I'm Prince Viserys."

Jon looked toward Ser Barristan, his wisened face holding straight despite the sight before him. Viserys had a punchable face, his chin high and proud, his lips pouty, his mouth permanently smug. Oddly though, it was clear by his every action that he'd never truly been punched in the face before. Jon was amazed by that; he'd known him all of five seconds and that was the only thing he could think of doing.

"Jon Snow, Your Grace."

"I'm glad you've not saw it fit to stop addressing me as such, bastard," continued Viserys. He uttered bastard with bite and, if he'd found Jon at a younger age, it might've hurt. "It's good to know that you don't think yourself a dragon. The rest of the world doesn't."

Irritation rose in Jon. "And yet, I will be called a Targaryen all the same. Just the same as you."

Fire burned in Viserys' milk-pale eyes. "We are not the same!" he shouted, spit flying from his mouth. "I'm blood of the dragon, not some North dog begotten of a whore mother."

Jon eyes stormed, his grey eyes swirling with rage. Jon stepped up toward Viserys, the Dragonstone prince taller but thinner, Jon's frame nearly twice as broad.

"I wouldn't say that about my mother. Not now. Not ever." Jon said, his eyes staring into Viserys', the elder Prince holding the smug confidence of one who'd never truly known a fight.

"What will you do about it, bastard?" Viserys asked, unwavering. "I'd have you killed and your mother's corpse fucked and there is nothing you can do to stop it. I may even do it for fun."

"Not yet," Jon said, his jaw clenching. "But I didn't hear any songs of Viserys Targaryen on the journey south. I didn't hear any toasts to your name, either."

"And?"

"They call you a craven, Your Grace," Jon said, his face clear of emotion. "Should you kill Lyanna Stark's son, they will call you a mad craven. And, the last one of those get killed by Ser Jaime Lannister, on the orders of our King, my father."

"You don't intimidate me, Snow." Viserys retorted.

"And you don't intimidate me either."

"I should," Viserys said, rising himself upon the balls of his feet so as to loom over Jon. "I'll be your end."

"Then I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," Jon said. "But nothing you say will make me fear a man too craven to wield his own sword."

"Watch how you speak. Or you will awaken something you don't want, Snow," Viserys said, his voice nearing erratic. He left Jon's room then, Ser Oswald near-running after him.

"He speaks true, Jon," said Ser Barristan, his oft-warm voice stone cold. "We protect you from all but your own family."

"A boy that green doesn't give me fear, Ser." said Jon, a hand running through his curling hair.

Ser Barristan walked toward Jon's chair, where upon Dany's shrug was laid. He picked it up. "But he does give Princess Danerys fear, Jon," he said. "And, should he know you care about her, he will hurt her just so that he can hurt you."

"I've only known Dany this day." Jon said.

"Yet she is now Dany," Ser Barristan countered. "The Princess makes every man, woman and child she meets fall for her. It is her blessing. Should Viserys know you care for her, it will be her curse."

"I've only allowed her here because she was scared out of her wits when I found her," Jon said, though his words did not ring true.

"Then you know what the Prince does to her," said Ser Barristan. "Jon, this journey has a horrid end. No good comes of you making Viserys an enemy."

"I think teaching him a lesson might come of this." Jon said, his voice low.

"Forgive me, but the bastard Prince becoming the kinslayer Prince is not a good outcome," said Ser Barristan.

Jon sighed.

"Then what would you counsel, Ser?" he asked.

"I would counsel you to keep a calm head. Don't let your anger rule you," said Ser Barristan. "You were brought south to do good, to act as all others haven't been able to."

"Thank you, Ser."

Barristan leaned over. "Do right by her, Jon," he whispered. "It was agony to serve the first mad dragon, but Viserys hurts all the more for what he does to that sweet, wonderful girl."

Jon gave him a nod.

"I will see you on the morrow, Jon," Ser Barristan said, with a smile. "Perhaps tomorrow will be the day you bring me to sweat."

"I look forward to it." Jon said, allowing Ser Barristan to return to the Dragonstone Prince. Jon called up to Dany. "You can come down, if you wish."

Footsteps were the reply, the Princess appearing, her big, violet eyes worried, though her presence calmed by her hand within Ghost's fur.

"You are safe now, Dany," Jon said, his voice turning soft.

The fear in her eyes did not abate. "Viserys will hurt you for protecting me," she said.

"No, he won't," Jon replied. "He will be too distracted with hating me to think about that."

Dany's violet eyes went wide. "Don't get yourself hurt for me. I am not worth it."

Jon smiled. "Ghost, I think, would beg to differ, " he said, his eyes flicking to the wolf. "You are welcome to stay here for as long as you would like. My room is yours."

Dany did not seem comfortable with such a statement, though she did not leave, either. She slept there, in the end, curled with Ghost, while Jon slept in his solar.

* * *

Like most Dornishfolk, Ashara Dayne did not wish for the path of most revelry. Her beauty had already drawn her too much attention for her to truly ever wish for it. So, rather than come through the gates of the Red Keep with herald, she slipped in to the capital, with no great fanfare, into Queen Elia's chambers.

The Queen had known this, of course, for they had been been friends longer than they'd been walking. Queen Elia and Ashara had explored the castles when they were both young and inquisitive, learning the secrets of the castle that only the dragons of old knew. And so, as Ashara met Queen Elia, Elia welcomed her with the warm embrace of old friends.

"We set off as soon as I received your raven,"Ashara whispered, her mouth buried in the crook of her friend's neck. "You sounded worried."

Elia pulled back, taking in the sight of her closest friend. Her beauty was a relief to see. Her hair, softer than the finest silk, her skin, fairer than the finest days of summer and her eyes, shockingly violet and inescapably beautiful. There hadn't been a person alive captured by those eyes that failed to fall in love with her.

She had no doubt Jon would not be the exception.

"I'm so relieved to see you, Ashara," Elia said, tears pricking at her eyes, though not falling onto her dark cheeks, hugging her once more.

Ashara pulled her to the Queen's bed, laying them side-by-side as they often did when they were girls, their noses grazing. Ashara played with the curls of Elia's hair, stroking them so as to sooth her.

"What's happened?" asked Ashara, her voice like the skin that stroked Elia's hair.

"I've done something stupid," Elia said, a tear trickling to her cheek. "I've acted like some stupid child."

"Hush, hush," Ashara said, drawing her closer. "I promise you, whatever you worry over, it will not be as bad as you fear."

Elia laughed miserably. "I think wanting to take your husband's son is as bad as could be."

Ashara digested her words, though like all good friends, she cared only for Elia and so she held her until she settled.

"After all these years, it seems that Rhaegar has finally made a Targaryen out of you." Ashara said, smiling that spellbinding smile, and Elia laughed.

"What should I do, Ashara?" Elia asked. Despite being her elder, Elia had forever looked up to Ashara. She'd forever been her rock.

"If the Gods were good, you should allow yourself what you want. By the Seven, that is what Rhaegar did," Ashara said, her hand stroking Elia's hair. "Failing that, wait for it to pass like all the boys before."

"I do not think this one will pass," Elia replied, falling further into Ashara's arms. "In twenty years, I've never wanted anyone else. Despite everything."

"Then do it." Ashara said, simply.

Elia's dark eyes grew wide. "I can't!"

"Your children are grown now. Your marriage is dust in the wind," Ashara explained. "Do you not think it is time that you allow yourself some joy, before you're old and grey?"

"I can't, you know I can't," Elia insisted, wiping at her own tears. "That's not my fate. It never was."

"Please, Ellie. As your friend, you need this. You deserve to live your own life, before it's too late. If you don't, I might have to take him for myself," Ashara joked, her red lips smiling.

"You should," Elia said, her words joking but her face deadly serious. "He's Ned Stark but young, with a face maidens cry over."

"As you recall, Ned Stark had a face I cried over," Ashara retorted, a self-deprecating grin playing at her mouth.

"If you cry for Ned, you will weep for Jon Snow," Elia said.

"Ellie, no," replied Ashara, her eyes kind and twinkling. "I couldn't hurt you."

"It would not hurt so terribly," Elia argued, her dark eyes insistent. "I could then know that my best friend had the most beautiful man in Westeros. It would be a sweet pain, in truth."

"And what then?" Ashara asked, her voice gently teasing. "I would tell you stories of Jon?"

Elia's eyes darkened oddly.

She nodded. "Just like you did with the Dalt boys when you were a child."

"I could not," Ashara insisted, though her arguments grew weak. She'd always grown soft, if Elia asked it of her. "They were games we played as girls. Not now. Not as you feel the way you do."

Elia's hands came to Ashara's cheekbones, her dark eyes wide and pleading. "Please, would you do this for me?" she begged.

Ashara could never truly say no to Elia. She took a while to decide, though, hesitating until she simply could not deny her dearest friend.

"I will do this for you, Ellie," she said, eventually.

Elia held her tight, in overwhelming gratitude. Before she'd worried over the thought of Ashara and Jon, of her beautiful friend taking Jon's attention from her. Yet then, as she held her, the thought of the two together was not one that pained her. Much the opposite.

Ashara had been her closest confidant, her closest friend. For Jon to take Ashara, as he wished to take Elia would be no great travesty. There was no person in the world she'd rather see Jon take.

The two greatest beauties in all of the Kingdoms, intertwined and embraced. Jon, his powerful, graceful frame and his great strength, his wonderful rage and want. Ashara, her wondrous curves, her hungry, delightful lips, her spectacular, unforgettable eyes. Jon, hovering above her, his youthful power overwhelming her, his strength controlling her. Ashara, her writhing body, her gorgeous moans, her violet eyes rolling, driving him to release.

No, there would be no pain there. Of that, Elia had no doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fucking starts here. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

**ELIA**

"How is Arianne?" Elia asked of Ashara as they sat within the Queen's chambers. Ashara's arrival had not yet been announced to the court  _en masse_ , she preferring the quickly-lost anonymity of Elia's own space. Elia had asked that only Ser Arthur be their guard, a request he most appreciated.

"I have not seen her in some months," Ashara admitted, her legs curled beneath her like a cat basking in the sun that streamed through the windows. "She takes after her Uncle from all I hear."

Elia frowned. "In the blade, or in the mind?"

Ashara smiled. "The mind, I think," she said, with reluctance. Politics were never Ashara's sphere, Elia knew. She cared only for children and for love; the Gods had seen it fit to deliver neither in great abundance. "She is a sweet girl. Ambitious."

Elia smiled. Ashara was not one to speak an unkind word in place of a kind one. That kindness, much like her otherworldly beauty, would never leave her.

"Did you not once describe Cersei Lannister in the same way?" Elia asked, her warm laugh quickly accompanying her words.

"And she is," contested Ashara, her violet eyes assured. "She loves her children."

That had been one of the smarter choices from the last war, thought Elia. Tywin Lannister would not ravage the Riverlands, as he so often was want to do, if his own child resided there. So, with the lion now a trout, the rivers were as clear as they had ever been.

"If nothing else, she does that," agreed Elia, as she pulled her legs beneath her, so as to mirror her closest friend. "I feel as though we have not spoken in an age, Ashara. I worry that you may have taken up a new life entirely in my absence."

Ashara laughed, high and serene. "What would this life be full of, dear friend?" she asked, the laughter hanging in her words. It was a talent of her. When she was happy, the world was too.

"Maybe you've become Nymeria-come-again, fighting in the free cities," Elia joked, her voice fanciful.

"Leave the sword to Art; Gods only know what he'd be without it," Ashara returned, her voice loud enough to meet the ears of their guard. "Married and content. Oh, how horrid that would be for him."

"I am content now, sister." spoke Ser Arthur, his voice deep in a way that made all the maidens blush even now as he approached forty-five years.

Ashara's violet eyes grew sad.

"Do you not long for a family, Art?" asked Ashara.

"I have a family," assured Art. "I have five brothers and I have you."

Sadness was one fate that plagued Elia's first friend all too often. Elia hated few things more than such a sight.

Ashara turned her sad eyes upon Elia. "When do you intend to start your plan?"

Elia flinched, her heart racing immediately. "I had not thought about it."

That was a lie. She'd thought on little else. But how could she not?

Every night she dreamed of it. Of Jon and Ashara together, his powerful body, as graceful with that sword as he was with the other, taking her best friend, her  _beautiful_  friend. She dreamed of how their noises would mingle in the air, of how Jon's low moans would run through her and how Ashara's cries would please her.

"I think it may be good if we begin soon," Ashara decided, her sorrow traded for action. She was Dornish, after all. "I would like to meet him, if nothing else."

* * *

**JON**

Despite her initial hesitance, Jon found Dany in his chambers most nights. She often came quietly, first with soft knocks upon his door and then soon no knock at all. She often brought books with her, mostly concerning the dragons of old.

Jon's eyes turned soft at her. The dragons were a fantasy, much alike the Others of the North or the swamp-spirits of the Neck. A fantasy that most often filled the minds of children, for they lacked the worldliness to doubt their belief. Yet Dany sat, her eyes unwavering, enraptured by the tales.

Jon's uncle had told him, just as he himself had been told, that dragons were the excuse that their ancestors had invented to corral the smallfolk. In reality, the Targaryen invasion was fought using Wildfire, thrown by trebuchet in great, terrible volleys. Torrhen Stark had not knelt in face of flying lizards, but to several hundred-thousand gallons of the horrid substance, as well as the combined armies that Aegon had coalesced.  _That_  was why Dorne remained elusive to the conquest, for wildfire could do little but die when surrounded by so much  _sand_.

They were a fierce image to invoke, however, and every Targaryen knew that. In the beginning, the Targaryens paid mummers to dance with faux dragons and spread their fear. Aegon himself employed sculptures to create the dragon heads that adorned the walls of the Red Keep, even going as far as to create a dragon pit in King's Landing, though there had never been a single drake to live its days there.

"You don't believe in them, do you?" Dany asked one day, as Jon went about his afternoon readings, largely concerning the martial history of the Ironborn, shaking him of his focus. "The dragons?"

Jon shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I don't."

Dany proved to be a sorrowful mix of young and old. Her eyes wide and bright, though the looks they held were often withered and aged. Her joy was rare, though when it came, as it did when she was with Ghost, it bloomed like mayflower.

She did not show surprise. "Why not?"

"Because, I think, the simplest answers are the most likely," Jon said, his voice coming soft. He did not know why, for they were both of the same age, but he found himself shaving away the edges of himself around her. "I've never seen a dragon, but I have seen Thoros of Myr use his sword, and I do think that seeing is believing here."

"Yet, you have Ghost, a wolf, who follows you like a hound," Dany countered. "How do you explain that?"

"I raised him well." Jon replied. The truth of the Stark direwolves was that the Kings of Winter had always raised wolves and fought along side them, keeping them half-wild but caring of their human companions. The wolfmastery was a science in Winterfell.

Dany's face fell. "I know them to be true. I see them in my dreams," she said. Jon's brow furrowed. "I will be the one to bring them back to our house and restore our glory."

Jon paused for a moment.

"And how long have you known this to be your destiny?"

"For all of my life," Dany said, her voice harried and odd. "Viserys has always said so. He's said that I shall birth them for him, and he shall the rule the kingdoms with them."

Jon's jaw clenched, his hand coming to his waist where his sword would have been.

"Is that a fate you want?" he asked, swallowing his ire. "Dragons, if they did exist, were beings of death. Do you truly want to be responsible for making them?"

"It is my destiny," Dany replied, her voice flat. "I don't have a choice."

Jon's eyes stormed, grey and immovable. The words stirred images of Arya in his head, though with her there was anger as they were spoke. Arya had hated her fate, of marriage and ladyship, but Dany seemed like an unmoored boat in a tempest.

With Arya, the solution was simple. A rapier and a bribe for Ser Rodrik to teach her which end to use when her mother wasn't looking. With the strength of a boy and a girl still not greatly different, she was no doubt one of the more deadly twelve-year olds alive.

A thought stirred with Jon. He looked at Dany as she was then; small and soft and good. Viserys had threatened her and yet she could not hope to stop him, for her guardians were not truly  _her_  guardians, but Viserys'.

At once, Jon reached into his boot and pulled forth a dagger. It was not a terribly good one, for it weighed almost nothing and the handle had long since grown to be too small for his hands, but it proved valuable when the need arose. Better to have, than to have not.

Dany recoiled at its sight. "Don't fret," Jon soothed, moving the blade betwixt his fingers. "If you are to birth these dragons, surely you must also need to know how to protect them?"

"I don't understand." she said, her eyes not leaving the dagger.

"Dragons are valuable things. People kill for valuable things," Jon said, plainly. "The Targaryen women of old used to fight alongside the men. I think it would be smart if that tradition was one that continued."

"I-I couldn't…Viserys would never let me-"

"I don't care about what Viserys 'let's' you do," Jon replied, the ire unmistakable. "You are a Targaryen, aren't you?"

Dany nodded.

"Targaryens are not politicians, broodmares, soldiers or slaves. They are  _rulers_ ," Jon said, forceful. "You do not ask for permission and your life is not someone else's to control. I don't care what other people want for you. Do you want to learn how to use this?"

Dany hesitated, for a moment. "But what if I hurt myself?"

"Would you rather you hurt yourself by accident, with this, or let someone else hurt you because you can't protect yourself?"

Dany nodded then.

"O-okay," she agreed. "I want to do this."

Jon passed the dagger to Dany grip-first, her small hand well-suited for the blade. She moved it about, childlike wonder in her eyes, watching it respond to her actions, amazed at every turn that it did not catch fire or explode in her hands.

"It's beautiful," Dany said, breathless, as light danced upon the blade. Jon had commissioned it at twelve, Ser Rodrik having allowed he and Robb to begin using live steel, from the blacksmith's son whom had since left for Oldtown where his artistic designs would be more greatly appreciated. It was a pretty thing, with wolves engraved into its grip of wonderfully soft leather. "Are you sure you want to let me use it?"

"I want you to have it," Jon replied immediately. "And I don't want to have an argument about it, either. I will get you a belt so that you can wear it without arousing suspicion."

"But what if Viserys finds it?" Dany asked, her eyes at the floor.

"Nothing," Jon said, resolute. "You are both Targaryens of Dragonstone. He commands you no more than Rhaenys or Aegon does. And, if he takes issue, he will be taking issue with someone who holds a knife."

Dany wrestled with that idea which saddened Jon. It seemed, of all the deaths that occurred during the war, Rhaella's was wrongly forgotten, for it forced Dany to grow up without the care she deserved.

She nodded. "Okay, I think I can do this."

"I know you can," Jon said, and put her to work.

* * *

With Dany then in possession of his dagger, Jon grew curious. How was it that Viserys had been allowed to run roughshod over her, without her own family intervening?

Though they did not live with one-another, the Targaryens were family still. The Karstarks were distant kin to the Starks, yet Lord Eddard still took Rickard Karstarks head when he hurt young Alys in the most wrongful of manners. But the Targaryens, even as they preached of the power of their own blood, allowed Viserys to act as he did to one who held it.

Jon's ruminations brought him to his father's chambers, there by his own willing for the first time.

"My Lord," Jon said to Lord Hightower, whom stood as the King's guard that night. "Is my father in there?"

Lord Gerold nodded. "Alone," he specified, opening the door for Jon.

King Rhaegar sat in his chambers, his deep red cloak wrapped twice around him as he took warmth from the fire, the light casting his skin pale and waxy.

"My son," he said, his hand rising to beckon him in. "Come, join me."

Jon did, sitting a distance from Rhaegar, warm without the fire.

"I'd intended upon talking to you sooner," said King Rhaegar, his eyes flickering in the flames. The implication that there was  _something_  for the two of them to talk about shot fear through Jon. "I must apologise for how uneventful your first few weeks have been here."

"Better than the opposite, Your Grace."

Rhaegar nodded. "I fear I viewed you as an ally rather than a son and for that I'm sorry. That, truthfully, is not the reason you're with me now," he said, sipping with his goblet.

"It's quite alright," Jon said, surprised. "I've enjoyed my time with the Kingsguard."

"I'm glad," said Rhaegar, his violet eyes brightening under the fire's light. "How's Art? Still so offensively good with a sword?"

"Even better," Jon said. Rhaegar smiled, his lips not parting. "They've been good to me."

"They were good to me too, back when I was still able to wield something useful," Rhaegar replied, his eyes growing melancholy. It was odd, Jon thought, to see one's own face reflecting to one's self, for Jon no doubt had held the same look so very often when he brooded. "Gerold raised me more than my own father did. Placed a lance in my hand and taught me how to use it. Barristan was the one who taught me how to shave. Art was the one that taught me humility, for I could never, ever beat him with a sword."

Jon paused for a moment, his father's words laying over him.

"Why did you raise Ser Loras to the Kingsguard, Your Grace?" Jon asked, his curiosity faster than his sense.

"You don't think he deserves it?" Rhaegar asked, equally curious. "How come?"

"He's not a man of honour, is he?" Jon asked, rhetorically. "He wants fame and he wants glory, not honour."

"If honour were the only reason to be a Kingsguard, there would be only the Starks, Art and Barristan that could serve," Rhaegar replied. "He was chosen because he was talented and because the Tyrells were owed."

Jon rankled, but he did not press the issue.

"Are you intending upon entering the joust?" Rhaegar asked then. Jon shook his head.

"The melee," Jon replied. "I did not inherit your jousting talent."

Rhaegar turned melancholy once more, his eyes cast in recollection, of what there was no doubt. King Rhaegar only won one tourney, though it was a large one, and his prize was the son that sat before him.

Silence rang throughout the room, until Rhaegar cleared the corridors of his thoughts.

"Tell me; what did you make of the small council meeting?" Rhaegar asked then, drinking a heavy gulp of his wine.

"I think your ruling over the Ironborn issue was clever," Jon said. Rhaegar waved a hand.

"I do not mean what was discussed," Rhaegar corrected. "I meant for  _how_  it was discussed. What did you make of my councillors?"

"Tywin Lannister was everything he was spoken of being," Jon said, after a moment's thought. "Stannis Baratheon too."

"And of the others?" Rhaegar pressed.

"You and Lord Velaryon are close friends." Jon continued, without a doubt or questioning.

"We are," Rhaegar agreed. "I find it helps to have one person in the council I can trust unwaveringly. Anymore and you risk becoming foolhardy, but any less and you begin to doubt everything around you."

"I don't believe anything Lord Varys said."

"Nor should you," King Rhaegar agreed. "Anything else?"

Jon shook his head.

Rhaegar sighed. "I suspect not. You have not spent as much time with these men as I have," he said, his right hand supporting his head with his elbow on the table. "I apologise for this, but I had an ulterior motive in inviting you. I wished to draw out their opinions of your appointment."

"And?"

"It is as I suspected," said Rhaegar, which helped little. "They do not know what to do. In time, as you demonstrate your value, they will view you as the ticket to putting their children on the throne, but that will be in time."

"And how do you know this?" Jon asked curiously.

"Because it is my duty to know this," Rhaegar replied. "I know those men better than their wives do. Each silence, each word, each breath has a meaning and I know it. In time, I imagine you will too."

"I still don't understand why it is you brought me down here," Jon replied, earnest. "If you wanted to strike fear in your enemies, I would've thought the mountain would be better than me."

"Perhaps," Rhaegar agreed. "But the mountain is not my son, and we Targaryens take care of our family, highborn or not. I want my son to be close to me, as he should always have been. Your presence has many causes, one being that my Lords grew restless at the thought of you amassing power and wanted you where they could see you, but  _my_  reason was that I wanted to raise my son."

"I think I'm already raised," argued Jon.

"There are still things I must teach you," Rhaegar countered. "I will teach you to be a Lord of your own holdings and to gain what you must without ransoming your honour. Hopefully, I might also guide you to be the Commander you must be."

Jon swallowed his wine, his shoulders bunching at his father's words.

"What were the Crown Prince and Princess' reasons for wanting me here?" Jon asked, after a moment. "I doubt it was for lack of fraternal love."

Rhaegar grinned; an odd look for his ageing face. "They scheme, like all young ones do. Mayhaps they want another toy to play with," Rhaegar thought allowed. "Neither wish for personal power greatly, only in moving the pieces of power about. If they are not pieces themselves, they have more pieces to play with."

"Without wishing to be rude, I think I prefer my northern siblings."

"They have not been given cause to love you yet, nor you they," spoke Rhaegar. "Seek them out and give them one."

Jon coughed.

Rhaegar finished his goblet, making no move to fill it again. "Enjoyable though this conversation of ours was, what was the reason of your coming here tonight?" he asked. "I won't compliment myself by imagining it was for my company."

Jon paused for a moment, weighing his words. "I met Prince Viserys-"

"Ah, I see," interrupted Rhaegar. "My brother does not offer the greatest of impressions, I admit."

"It is more than that, Your Grace," continued Jon. "I have also met D-Princess Danerys."

"She presents finer impressions." Rhaegar said. Jon clenched his jaw.

"Do you not think there are… _better_  options for Prince Viserys betrothed than her?" Jon asked, watching Rhaegar's eyes.

Jon watched Rhaegar.

He could tell.

He could tell that Rhaegar knew.

"Viserys wants for no other wife than her."

"And what of Dany's wants?" Jon argued, furious.

"She has made no comments either way." Rhaegar said, his voice a quiet monotone.

"Does she  _need_  to?" Jon asked, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

"Viserys sits upon the second greatest mine in the Seven Kingdoms. It produces the obsidian that every warlock in the east uses in their candles. It produces half of the gemstones in our fineries, not to mention that Dragonstone takes in every ship's tax from King's Landing," Rhaegar said, before leaning forward and beginning to whisper. "Viserys may be an angry man, but he's a very rich one. The last thing we need is another rebellion and Viserys could start one tomorrow with the Golden Company at his back."

"You would offer your own sister as forfeit?" Jon asked, his eyes storming.

"It is the King's position to make difficult decisions," spoke Rhaegar, in redirection. "I cannot put one life before one million."

"Even your own sister?" Jon asked. Behind his eyes, he pictured Viserys' hands upon Arya and he could scarcely stop himself from sprinting after the silver-haired cunt.

Rhaegar rose then. "I believe it's time for our conversation to end."

Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.

If not his father, it would have to be himself.

* * *

Jon took a lot from his that conversation, though oddly his first act born from it was to see his siblings.

The chambers of Prince Aegon lay far away from his father. Where the King's looked over the city, Aegon's were at the back end of the castle, deep within the heart of the keep, halfway between the armoury and the court. Rhaenys' chambers lay not far away, the pretence of virtue long-since departed.

They were much more opulent than Jon's own chambers. Moreso than the King's even, with the door yet adorned with gold.

It would've been a lie to say Jon wished to be there, for he truly didn't. The sight upon entry was not what he wished to see either, but he could not say that he did not expect it. It was his own fault, really.

Prince Aegon lay upon his bed, his hands at the writhing waist of his sister, whom sat upon his cock, bouncing up and down at her leisure, drawing raptured moans from her brother. Her dark hair stuck to her forehead as she fucked Aegon under the southern heat. Her wide, twisting hips working her pussy around Aegon's hard member.

They did not notice his arrival, their moans drowning out any noise he'd made. Rhaenys played with Aegon, her rhythm slowing and then quickening, delighting in the way Aegon's eyes widened at every turn. His hands moved to her breasts, which sat small upon her chest, but she quickly pinned them back to her side.

"Remember brother," teased Rhaenys, her arse sat against Aegon's thighs taking away the wondrous feeling Aegon no-doubt needed from her then. "If you don't do as I asked, you won't get anything at all."

Jon coughed.

They turned their heads to see them, though they did not move. They smiled though, perhaps meaning to enjoy his discomfort at their current state. If he hadn't caught Robb and his favourite serving girl together half-a-hundred times, he might well have been.

"Well, if it isn't the missing sibling. So kind of you to join us," Aegon said, before laughing. "Well, not literally."

"Another time," Jon replied, drawing a laugh from his sister.

"It is very kind of you. One grows bored of looking at the same faces every day, after all," Rhaenys said. Jon did not know where to look, though thankfully the room was so large that his siblings could not tell exactly where his eyes focused. "Well, all faces but yours, I'm sure. I doubt many would grow tired of that."

"Careful sister. Remember who's dick your sitting on," Aegon said, pulling his hips back briefly, only to thrust forward and force a moan from his sister. "Not that I disagree with Rhaenys, but why exactly are you here?"

"I thought I'd like to get to know my siblings." Jon said, his eyes inspecting Rhaenys.

She roused an odd feeling in Jon, for her looks owed so much to her beautiful mother, with her dark eyes and flowing hair, her waifish frame and her smiling mouth, her dark skin and her high cheekbones. Her hips were wider than Elia's and her jaw was sculpted like Jon's own, but she held much the same beauty.

For a moment, Jon allowed his mind to place himself beneath Rhaenys' writhing hips, to feel his cock pulse inside her tight, wet cunt and for his thighs to fuck deep inside her. If he were Aegon then, he would not sit and take  _from_  her, but he would  _take_  her. He would grasp her hips, force her to her back and fuck her deep into the bed until she could do nothing but moan for his cock to give her more, more more.

"Well, I suspect you may now know more of us then you intended," said she, aware of his attention, the corners of her lips quirking upward. She dropped her hips down hard, forcing Aegon into the bed with her hands upon his chest, though without any great force, careful of the fragile Prince's body. "Would you prefer if we stopped?"

"No, don't get up on my account," Jon replied, his voice oddly even. They were Targaryens, after all. This was literally what everyone had said would happen. "You don't come into my rooms and tell me what to do."

"Quite," Aegon agreed, with a laugh. "Though I'm sure you wouldn't do anything quite as galling as this with our beloved Aunt."

Jon was not surprised they knew, though he did wonder how.

"Not when she's betrothed to Viserys, at least," said Rhaenys.

"Am I not allowed to meet with my own family?" asked Jon.

"That depends entirely on the family member," replied Aegon, his hips fighting the urge to cant forward against his sister. "With our mother, you could have a candlelit dinner out by the Godswood without a care. With Dany, you may find blade in your bed if you did the same."

The thought of Elia's face in the candlelight made Jon eyes' brighten, unbidden. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

Aegon could take no more, it seemed, and took his sister's waist, flipping them and pressing her onto the silk sheets, his cock not-once leaving her wet, hot cunt.

"What we're suggesting, Jon," panted Aegon, the sheen of their exertions clear upon him, his sinuous arms supporting his weight as he… _finally_  took what he wanted. "Is for you to plant your seeds in the spring, not in the winter. Allow yourself time to bed in before you go about what you want. Mayhaps you might gain perspective."

That was odd. Jon did not know them terribly well, though by his brother's tone he gathered that wheels were already turning. He had no great faith in their efforts, for nothing had been done yet, but it was good to know.

"Could I ask you something?" Jon asked. Aegon nodded, though Rhaenys did not, her mind elsewhere entirely. "Why is it that you asked me South?"

"One moment." said Aegon, and at once it was as though Jon was not in the room at all.

Aegon's eyes were only meant for the sight of Rhaenys, his every attention belonging to her and only her. They moved with a oneness Jon did not know possible, each thrust of his hips met in equal measure by hers. When Aegon pulled, Rhaenys pushed. What Rhaenys asked, Aegon gave.

They kissed, and suddenly they ceased being two separate entities but one being joined by flesh and blood and utter devotion. With every touch of Aegon's hands, he expressed true and utter devotion. His lips met her neck and jaw and cheeks as if to offer her everything he could, each and every drop of care he  _could_  give, he gave.

Rhaenys pleaded then, her heels digging in to Aegon's arse, forcing him into her.  _Harder,_ her body begged,  _more_ , her eyes pleaded, and Aegon was fluent in the language of Rhaenys. His breath began to grow ragged, but he gave her what she needed, her needs entirely before his.

"Aegon, I'm close," cried Rhaenys, her legs shaking against Aegon's skin. "Don't stop!"

Aegon too neared the end, yet his resolve did not falter. He forced his cock deep inside her, his own burning need for release growing unbearable, but he bore it for her to find her peak. And by the Gods, did she peak.

Rhaenys came with cry from deep within her. An old, primal sound that sent a shot through Jon, but it did far more than that for Aegon. Her body's writhing and her cunt's clenching was all too much for Aegon, and he filled her with a roaring shout.

Jon could not deny that he was turned on by the sight, relation be damned. Truly, Rhaenys and Aegon were both visions of beauty. To see them meet so spectacularly was breathtakingly hot, yet Jon did feel the familiar pang of jealousy.

 _They_ , they had gotten exactly what he craved. He craved that connection, that burning desire and that wondrous fulfilment.

With  _Elia_.

Yet his trueborn siblings were again blessed with another gift that he was not.

Clarity came into the eyes of the couple, the post-peak bliss on their face as clear as the northern sky, their arms and legs and everything entangled. Rhaenys hid in the crook of her brother's neck, content to lick and kiss lazily there.

Aegon's eyes turned back to Jon. "The reason you were brought here was simple, though I doubt it would seem it now," he said. Jon fought the urge to bristle at the slight. "It's because of the madness."

"What about it?"

"I've researched it for as long as I've been able to read, Jon. It terrifies me, to lose control of your own mind like that," Aegon replied, his hand skimming against his sister's skin. "Take our Grandfather. In his first twenty years, his mind was relatively clear, if raging at times. Then came the rift between he and Lord Tywin, and suddenly he could scarcely trust anyone. He forced himself to do everything, and the world began to swallow him whole."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand."

"One man alone is not enough, despite what some of our family may think," Aegon clarified. Rhaenys had began to softly doze. "The reason for our father's success is because he has the finest small council ever established. His mind is not over-taxed, and so he does not turn to the madness."

Jon nodded. "You think I may sit upon your small council?"

"Mayhaps," Aegon said. "But the council teaches a valuable lesson. One man can do one job perfectly, but he can do many adequately. We do not wish for  _adequate._ We want prosperity, success, lasting peace. We want greatness."

"I'm sure you no doubt have a job for me." Jon said.

"I meant what was said on our first meeting," Aegon said. "We know what you've done in the North against the Wildlings. How you've commanded forces against the fearless men in Westeros and won. You've beaten raiders back on the coast and treated with the mountain clans to keep the realm safe. Such talent is in short supply these days."

Jon was surprised at just how much the Crown Prince knew. There was a sense, within the cold and beautiful North, that they were cut off politically as much as they were geographically. Perhaps that was not quite so.

"You mean to use me?"

"No," Aegon said, his eyes clear and decisive. "I mean to place you in the position that you can best use your abilities."

"I don't want this, you know," Jon said, his jaw tight. "I don't want this position you clammer to put me in."

Aegon chuckled. "No, I've no doubt what you want is to hold a castle in the middle of the ice of the North, close enough to Winterfell to see the Starks but far enough away so that your sword never longs for wildling blood," he said. "Just as Rhaenys and I long for the Water Gardens and the soldiers of our armies long to use their blades in harvesting the wheat. We may get what we want, but to get it we must do our duty. The Gods command it."

"And you're the one to decide what  _my_  duty is?"

"No, you are," Aegon said, simply. "But if you think you're duty is the North or the damned Wall, you're wrong."

Rage brewed in Jon's grey eyes, his fists clenching at his side as stared into the lilac of Aegon's eyes.

"I will take my leave, Your Grace." Jon said, standing stiffly.

Aegon's softened then, a touch of sympathy colouring his gaze. "You will find happiness here Jon. It will not be the happiness you once wished for, but it will be happiness all the same. We Targaryens are rulers, the ones with silk gloves and iron fists. And the ones allowed the silk gloves wish for the strength of the iron fist, just as the iron fists wish to be the silk gloves," he said, sighing. Jon looked over his brother then; his thin frame and his pale skin. "Better this way that for the iron to rust and the silk be stolen, I think."

"I do not think I will ever like this."

"No, you're a Stark," said Aegon, with a laugh. "You'll never like anything."

Jon walked away.

"One last thing, Jon," Aegon said. Jon didn't turn around. "If you ever want to relieve the frustration you're no doubt feeling, I'm sure Rhaenys and I would be happy to help."

Jon looked down immediately, his hard cock pushing against his breeches. His pale skin darkened.

He left before the laughter met his ears.

* * *

Dany took to the blade incredibly well; almost as though her hands were built for the dagger, despite her small stature and soft disposition or perhaps because of it.

"It is a game," Jon had said, as he'd began to instruct her. "You hit me before I hit you."

Dany took to the game well, for she understood space so intuitively. She was not one to be taught the differences in reach, on how a larger man could strike before a smaller man, for she knew. She was fleet-footed, too, her footfalls soft and silent. At times, she would cling to the shadows, allowing the dark to hide her movements.

The implication of such abilities only made Jon more furious.

"Jon, I have a question," Dany began, as she sat hunched over drawing air. Longevity was the only fault she truly had, for she was born not in the North, where ladies too worked physically, but in the sedentry south. Jon nodded at her words. "Why are you doing this for me?"

Jon looked down to where she sat, her frame curled so that she was forced small, her big, violet eyes looking up at him. "What 'this'?"

"This," she said, her eyes leading his to the dagger by her side. "Letting me use your rooms, being nice to me, everything."

Jon blinked, his brow furrowed.

"Because you're my Aunt. We're family." he said, slowly.

Dany shook her head vehemently. "I have many family members. None have done this."

"Then we have very different families," Jon argued, passing her a goblet of water. "For my family would say I have not done enough."

"They won't like it if you keep calling the Starks your family, you know," Dany said. She wore a pair of breeches that Jon had accidentally brought south, for they were too small for him but much too big for her, the sight making her look all the smaller.

"Am I to trade my honesty for their whims?" Jon asked, his jaw clenched. "The Starks raised me, not the Targaryens. I live in their Kingdoms, but that does not make me their true kin."

"Sorry." replied Dany, her eyes falling to the floor. Jon sighed.

"I'm sorry," Jon said. "I've found being in the South stressful. I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"It's okay," Dany said. "Better me than anyone else."

Jon's chest ached for her. The South had been so phenomenally unkind to her and, in that moment, he wanted for nothing more than to take the first ship to White Harbor and take her to the North. The weather was harsher, but that only made the people kinder.

Instead, he resolved himself.

"No," Jon said, his voice low and harsh, his accent coming thick. "I shouldn't have done that and I'm sorry. You were only asking a question and I bit your head off."

"It's okay," said Dany, combing a loose hair behind her ear.

"No, it isn't," Jon insisted. "Repeating the words doesn't make them true. I acted wrongly. I'm sorry."

Dany's eyes held confusion, her brow knitting together.

"You are a Targaryen," Jon continued. Dany sat up straighter. "You aren't supposed to take things lying down; so stand up for yourself."

Dany's eyes changed oddly. Jon wondered if anyone had ever said such a thing to her.

Her father died before she was born and, by all accounts, Aerys Targaryen would've been unlikely to offer his daughter such kindness. Her mother during her birth. Her real brother had died in her lifetime, succumbed to the madness, replaced by the horrid one she then had.

Jon knelt at her feet, in the place that her eyes were stuck. "Dany, what is it that you want?" he asked, his voice soft. "Not anyone else; you."

Dany tried to move her eyes from Jon, to rid herself of his attention, but he was too close.

"I would like to go to Essos," she said, quietly. "I would like to see the free cities."

Jon smiled, bright. "Which ones?"

Dany smiled too.

"Lys, for they say that is where that most of our people now live," Dany explained, each word stoking the fire in her eyes just slightly. "I want to see Braavos and the Isle of the Gods and the courtesans and the bravos, and I want to see Pentos and the merchant markets and we are very loved there."

"Then go," Jon said, resolute. "You aren't the Crown Princess. Aegon and Rhaenys will soon have children, and apparently I will soon enter discussions of marriage too. Others may not like it, but you must live as you want to, before it is too late."

Dany shook her head. "I couldn't-"

"Why not?" asked Jon, interrupting.

"Because Viserys would kill me!" Dany whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. "If Viserys even  _thought_  that I would abandon him so, he would send a blade in the night and take Margarey Tyrell as a bride."

Jon took her in his arms then, unable to stop himself from comforting her. He brought her against his chest, his hand stroking her hair, just as Sansa had enjoyed on the infrequent occasions she'd came to him when she was upset.

She sank into him, her body deflating in Jon's strong arms, her hands clutching at the lapels of his tunic. Jon wondered if she'd ever been held in such a way.

"It's going to be okay," Jon soothed, pressing a kiss to her hair. "He isn't going to lay a hand on you. I promise."

"How can you promise that?" Dany asked, her teary. "No-one else has been able to stop him; why are you different?"

"Because I don't really matter," Jon whispered. "All of the people down here matter. They're Lords or they're Sers or their brothers and fathers are. I'm just a bastard, a Prince in name only. Before I was ordered here, I was going to the Wall where I'd die for my honour. I'd much rather die for yours."

Dany went silent, her tears slowing and then stopping. She moved from his chest, though her arms did not leave there.

She went to her tiptoes, leaning forward and softly pressing her lips against his. Jon met her, his hands curling at her waist, before remembering himself.

"I'm not doing this to take you for myself," Jon said, though he did still hold her. "I doing this because someone needs to. And I am not becoming your protector, either. You're your own protector."

A bright grin dawned on her beautiful face.

"Thank you," Dany said, her eyes searching. "I don't know how I can repay you for what you do."

"I'm giving you what the world owes," Jon said. his eyes resolute, before turning contemplative. "When I was younger, I had everything you did not. Yet I was still jealous of you, for what you had and I didn't. Now, I realise that all of the things you had, that you may give me, I don't want, and all of the things I had, you deserve now."

Jon pulled her back into his arms.

"You deserve a family," Jon said, into her hair. "Not the scheming one you have, but the loving one that I did. I cannot give you that, for I'm only one person, but I would like to call you a member of mine."

"Thank you,  _Daddy_ ," she whispered, and Jon's insides burned.

Dany's eyes grew wide, moving away from his touch.

"I'm sorry, forgive me," she said, her pale skin burning. "It was a mistake."

Jon did not wish for to retreat into herself.

"It's okay," Jon said, his grey eyes soft like a summer's rain. "I'm just confused. Why would you call me that?"

"I do not know," Dany said, shaking her head vehemently. "I-I just…it was something I would call Ser Barristan, whenever he would take care of me when I was younger. I do not know why I would say it."

Jon's heart ached for the girl, of how she longed for care.

"Unfortunately, I'm not Barristan," Jon said, with a small smile, hoping she would smile too. She did. "I am not your father; we are the same age."

"I know, I know," she replied, harried. "You just protect me," Dany ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, I'm a fool. My mind does not know why I said it."

"It's okay," Jon assured, his hand going to play with her hair, as Arya had enjoyed him doing. "I don't mind, I promise."

Dany looked up at him then, her eyes wide and kind and lovely. "You are unlike anything I've ever met. Forgive me for not knowing how to react to you."

Jon's cheeks darkened.

"I did not know Notherners blushed," Dany teased, giggling.

Jon blushed further.

"How dare you speak to your father in such a manner," Jon teased back. Dany turned red again.

"Oh Gods," she groaned. "I did not say 'Father', I said 'Daddy'. I am not the first person to say it like that either, you know."

"How would you know?" Jon asked, his mouth acting faster than his mind.

"I overheard the servants talk," Dany said, quietly, her eyes again at the ground. "Many of them work at the brothels as well. They say some men pay extra to be called King, or Lord, or Ser," she paused. "Or Daddy."

"Why though?"

"Why do Lords call their Ladies sweetling or baby?" Dany responded.

Jon felt lost. He had not imagined that this was to be there subject of conversation.

"I won't make it a habit, I promise you," Dany said. She moved to the table where her dagger sat. "I shan't offend your Northern sensibilities."

Jon laughed with mirth. "There are men in the north who lay with giants and there are women who lay with bears," he contested. "In truth, with your family being as they are, I've no reason to be surprised."

Dany's eyes met Jon's. She appeared to want to contest his words again, but she did not. "They are your family, too," she said, advancing to him with a smile on her face. "Perhaps that's it. Do you share our family's sense?"

She moved toward him, until only the barest slip of air separated them.

"Tell me; did you like it?" she asked. "When I called you  _Daddy_?"

Jon's blood ran hot.

Dany was beautiful and he  _did_  long to take care of her. The word was not abhorrent, and spoken in her soft, breathy voice, it was far from being so.

"I'd prefer you didn't ask me these questions with a dagger in your hand," Jon said, instead of replying. Dany lowered her hand. "Why do you act as you do now?" Jon sighed. "With everything else, you're afraid, but with this, you're so confident. Why?"

"Because it is mine, and mine to give," Dany replied, her violet eyes caught alight by the sun streaming through the window. "Everything else is beyond my control except this. Forgive me for wishing to give it to someone of my choosing."

Jon picked up his 'dagger', a blunt kitchen knife. "Well, then it's my duty to teach you that the rest of the world can be yours too," he said, squaring his shoulders.

Dany did the same.

"Thank you,  _Daddy_."

Their game began anew.

* * *

The world, it seemed, was conspiring to make Jon's life a nightmare of the oddest proportions.

He remembered painfully of the days when he first began to grow into a man, where it seemed like his cock had a mind of its own and he himself was simply a vessel for it to inflict torment. Every time he was forced to dance with a pretty girl, it seemed as though the Old Gods themselves wished to enact their vengeance by such a torment. He himself held no desire for them, but his member certainly did.

Jon had thought those days were behind him, but it seemed like there was yet another conspiracy to inflict this torment, and from members of his own family no less.

With Dany in his chambers most nights, calling him that accursed name and looking as beautiful as she did. She'd began threatening to crawl into his bed in the solar some nights, no doubt wishing to taunt him with what she might find. He'd had half a mind to make her leave, to take back his own space, free from the filthy thoughts she birthed.

But, if we were being honest, he could not rightly say that he did not want her there. He thought her beautiful, as anyone with eyes would, but there was a sweetness to her that he wished to keep alive. He wished to allow her that sweetness, for it seemed that she was at her sweetest in the safety of his room. The world had not allowed her much in the way of ease, but he knew that she would gain much from having it.

However, that was where the goodness of his thoughts left. She so rarely wore more than a short nightgown around him, excepting the times where she wore his breeches and he wished to hold her and take care of her small, fragile body, her sense of propriety entirely lost in the face of teasing him with her wide hips and round arse. She was small, dainty thing, her big eyes casting her younger, at first glance, than what she truly was, yet her body was still so utterly womanly.

He dreamed of her some nights, dislodging the dreams of Elia and he together. In his dreams, he would take her from behind, one hand full of that hair that glinted like spun-gold and the other slapping her round, soft arse until her pretty, pale skin was red and sore and his hand became tatttoed onto it. And, with each thrust of his hips or slap of his hands, she would say that word.  _Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…_

His siblings did not help, shameful though it was. No matter the hour, day or weather, when Jon came into Aegon's room, they would be fucking. There was a fair amount of variety in their actions. They swapped power and dominance like most siblings swapped clothes or chores. She would ride him until she got what she needed, or Aegon would force against the wall and make her scream out into the streets of King's Landing (Thankfully they were high enough in the Red Keep for it not to be a problem) and all manner of other things the faith would likely excommunicate them for.

They were beautiful too, he could not deny that, and Aegon's offer, joking aside, had not left his mind.

It seemed he was not allowed to get through a day without some new, fresh hell, designed to damn his soul and messy his breeches, came at him. He was quickly growing restless. Elia's rules grew more and more painful by the day, for he did not wish for his first time to be with his own family, yet the option grew more and more attractive by the hour.

Jon wanted her, though. Jon wanted her more than he wanted anything. He wanted her to be the one that shared his chambers and he wanted her dark skin to flush with sweat and he wanted to tangle his hands in her curling hair while he fucked into her.

Thankfully, it seemed, that the Gods had grown bored of his torment, and had offered him a lifeline.

It had been just after his training with the Kingsguard. He himself had spent the day with Ser Arthur, they being the only two that were not to take part in the tilts of Jon's nameday celebrations, though they still trained with a lance. By Art's reckoning, Jon's abilities with the lance were a disservice to himself and, given he would in all likelihood spend his days leading from horseback, it would serve him well to practice.

A handmaiden came to Jon afterwards, as he rid himself of his armour and wiped away the grime he'd found himself covered in, and given him a letter without any forewarning. There was foreboding within him. Until he opened it.

It had been an invitation to meet with the Queen as quickly as he could. He'd burned it immediately, for there was nothing regal about what he'd intended to do when he saw her. He brushed past the Kingsguard quickly with only muttered goodbyes.

However, as he knocked on the door, it was not Elia that greeted him there, as he'd imagined. It was another.

He gasped.

To say that she was beautiful would be like saying the North was cold.

Jon knew then, unequivocally, that the Gods were real, for it would take an act of divinity to form one as beautiful as the woman before him. Her beauty burned, unmistakably and unavoidably, like the sun that hung above in warm days and the stars that danced in the night. Her beauty was otherworldly.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jon began.

This woman, this  _beauty_ ,shook her head and her dark hair, curling like the flows of a river, shook and framed her gorgeous face. "You shouldn't be," she said, her eyes searching his face. "I can't imagine you were expecting to see me."

Jon doubted there was anything in the world that could ready a man to see her face.

"No, I thought I was to meet Queen Elia." Jon said, though his voice did not, in truth sound like his own.

"I'm afraid not," she said, her voice low and sultry. "I am Elia's friend; Ashara Dayne."

Jon knew that name; every member of the Seven Kingdoms knew that name. One who's beauty was beyond all others. One who men killed for. One who made good men break their vows.

It seemed, however, that words could not hope to truly describe her, for she was beyond anything that was said of her. Her violet eyes danced like jewels in the candlelight, her beautiful lips, her perfect face.

Where Elia's beauty was dark, her dark skin and darker eyes giving Jon dark thoughts, Ashara Dayne's beauty radiated from her, for she seemed to glow within the room, with her light skin and bright, pink lips, making Jon lightheaded.

"I'm Jon Snow." he said, dumbstruck.

"I know, my dear, for I called for you," teased Ashara, inviting him in with a wave of her arms. "I must say, my dearest friend has good taste. Elia has told me what has happened."

"She has?" Jon asked, his voice rising against his own wishes.

Ashara nodded. "She's told me of your intentions, Jon. Of how you wish to  _take_  my dear friend for yourself. How naughty you are," she said, wine at her lips. Jon drew breath. "You would do that to Elia?"

Jon quickly scrambled for his sanity. "You can't help what you want."

Ashara laughed, low and throaty. "No you can't," she agreed. "But she is a good woman. She thought I might…remedy the situation."

Jon thought for a moment.

Elia had said that she wished for him to have another before herself. Here was  _another_.

Elia had brought him Ashara.

"I don't think I understand." Jon admitted.

Ashara laughed again.

"There is little to understand," Ashara said, standing up, offering her long, pale legs for Jon to gaze at. "Elia wants you yet she cannot, so she allows me to have you instead."

"No," Jon said, standing and walking toward her. "She allows  _me_  to have  _you_."

Jon took her in his arms, feeling her fair skin against his hands and kissed her, taking her in hungrily.

He  _needed_  this.

His mouth was upon her and he was too, his hands at her hips and waist and face, taking in the beauty that stood before him. Her skin was so hot, so brilliantly hot. He wanted to feel that heat upon him, to touch every inch of beautiful skin.

Ashara's arms wrapped around him, her hands at the back of his neck pulling him away for a moment.

Their eyes met, and Ashara gasped at the  _need_  she found there.

Jon was upon her again, this time his mouth upon her skin, drinking in all that she was. Her mouth, her jaw, her throat, her collarbone; he needed to take her in, to take _her_.

His hands grew greedy for her skin, grabbing at Ashara's hips and dragging her against him, holding her firm there. His mouth mapped the fragile beauty of her face, kissing at her elegant cheekbones and the dimples of her skin.

Ashara grabbed at his training shirt, pulling at the loose material and ridding him of the clothing, her hands urgent. Her touch was mesmerising, her nails gently tracing at his powerful body, the muscle of his abs and his broad, strong shoulders, leaving Jon to gasp into her skin.

Jon shucked off his top quickly, urgent for her touch, before his hands returned to Ashara, taking her in through the thin dress that she wore until that was no longer enough. He pulled  _hard_  at the thin silk, tearing it from neck to navel and revealing the glorious sight beneath.

She was a woman grown, and what a woman she was. Her hips full, her breasts large and round and Jon could not wait to take ahold of her there, stroking the delicate skin between his fingers and delighting in the moans that filled the air.

His mouth dipped down, taking a nipple into her mouth, kissing there, his hands than falling down to her full arse, grabbing it with strong hands and taking it for himself.

Ashara moaned, sending lightning down the spine of Jon Snow, as she worked at his throat, sucking light marks into the skin there. He pressed his throbbing cock against her centre, his need unmistakable.

She grinned into his neck, her lips moving to the shell of his ear. "Do you  _need_  me, Jon?" she asked, whispering. Her hand lowered to his cock, stroking through his breeches. Jon was nearly blind at the sensation. "Do you need me to take  _this_?"

She squeezed at his length.

"Do you need me to ride this, Jon?" she whispered, one hand then loosening the knot that held his breeches up, the other still working him. "Do you need me to  _fuck_  you?"

Jon hands came to her underclothes, held by only a thin strand, and tore them from her body with one motion. His finger brushed against her centre, groaning at the slick wetness he found there.

Jon's eyes met her's in challenge. "Do you need  _me_  to fuck  _you_?"

Jon's finger skimmed against the top of her pussy, against her swollen clit, and Ashara moaned. Jon did it again and again and again, the moans he earned only making his cock throb harder which, with deftness, Ashara had removed from his restricting clothes and began stroking in her small, soft hands.

The feeling was otherworldly; he felt as though he was swimming in the air, a formidable pressure beginning to build at the base of his length, growing from there into the pit of his stomach and swarming his chest.

"Don't forget me," Ashara chided, as his hands momentarily stilled as he sank into the incredible pleasure he felt.

Jon gasped, taking a hold of her anew, pushing her backward until her arse met the wall of Elia's room, forcing her between the stone of the walls and his rock hard cock. His hands continued their rhythmic action, desperately wrestling back his sense enough to please the beautiful woman before him.

His lidded eyes surveyed her face as he moved against her, watching at how she reacted. At how she moaned when he moved his finger from side to side, and how she mewled when he pressed  _just_  hard enough. It proved difficult though, for her hands were talented on him and his mind was quickly becoming lost to the pleasure.

She teased him so painfully, her fingers nimble enough for his climax to build and build and  _build_ , yet just as he began to dangle of the precipice of his release, she would slow her touch to a crawl and smile as he could not hold back the whines that she drew from him.

"Not yet," Ashara said, grinning against his skin. She grasped him firmly. "I want this inside of me when you come undone, Jon."

Jon moaned against her neck, impatient, the sound nearing a growl.

He dipped his middle finger lower, his thumb working circles against her sensitive clit, and entered her, her cunt already so slick for him. He gasped at the  _heat_ of her.

Ashara gasped too, her teeth gently biting at his neck, her spine snaking as he worked inside her with learning hands.

"Be gentle, Jon," Ashara insisted, her tongue licking at the point her teeth dug into, with her hand still working his cock  _just_  so. "Press against the top of my cunny."

Jon did as she said. He worried, for a moment, if he would hurt her, though he soon abandoned such thoughts as, whenever his fingers delved inside her, she gripped against his shaft as if to steady herself.

Soon, he met a curious part of her, different to the silken touch of the rest of her hot cunt. It felt odd, though as he touched her there, her reaction was brilliant, her skin flushing and her eyes falling closed.

His rough fingers pressed against her there again and she pushed her hips forward, the curls of dark hair that lay above her pussy pressing against his cock, her hands stilling as he worked.

"Don't forget about me," teased Jon, despite the blinding pleasure he felt then, with the touch of this woman against his skin.

Ashara's eyes opened, hooded, and her mouth grinned. "I don't think I'm going to forget you."

Ashara's hands came to his cock and Jon could no longer think, his mind blind to all but lust and Ashara's touch. He lifted her into his arms without an effort, her long legs wrapping around his waist, his cock stroking between the lips of her pussy.

She took her bottom lip between hers, biting at the soft skin, as he pushed her against the wall. With ease, he ground his cock against her lips, the head of his cock slick with her wetness. He groaned at the feeling, at the heat that poured from her hot core, at the soft stroking of her tender flesh, but it was not enough. He needed  _more_.

He took her from the wall in his strong, powerful arms, his mouth never leaving hers, walking the pair them to Elia's bed and throwing Ashara onto it.

Jon took a moment to gaze down at this woman, this beautiful creation that lay before him, as she lay spread for him to  _take_. At her skin, which glistened with her exertion. Her hair, which lay wild in the bed, tangled and mussed. At her cunny, wet and desperate for his thick, hard cock.

And, at her eyes, which burned in their violet hue and spoke only one thing.

 _Need_.

Jon fell into bed with her, landing between her legs, meeting her lips and beginning their hungry dance anew. Ashara laced her legs over his thighs, her heels at his arse dragging  _him_ closer to her yearning cunt.

Ashara sucked in his lip, before pulling away. "Jon," she said, the burning of her eyes almost overwhelming, a hungry grin at her lips. " _Fuck me_."

Jon was a slave to his need but Ashara was too. She took his cock in hand, slicking it with her wet pussy and stroking it, before pushing Jon forward with her heels and bringing the head of his cock into her hot cunt.

Jon gasped at the feeling, his hips pushing and pulling erratically, overwhelmed by such heat and such wonderful pressure which hugged his aching cock and made his climax build blindingly, his eyes forced shut by the overwhelming feeling of Ashara Dayne's cunt.

Jon's eyes met Ashara's and he found they shared the same  _need_ , the same desire within her. His cock filled her so delightfully, so perfectly. He found his rhythm quickly, his cock achingly hard within her, stoking the fire that built in her core. She threaded her arms around his neck, bringing him close until his head was at her neck; he kissed there, hungry and messy, his tongue swiping at her skin and tasting her, salty and feminine.

The pressure built at the base of his cock too, brought on by the unbelievable feeling of Ashara's pussy. He could not believe the softness, the wetness, the  _tightness_  of her gorgeous cunt. He could not imagine anything better than the feeling of Ashara squeezing every inch of his desperate cock.

He could control the force of his hips no longer, the sensation so brilliant, and his thrusts grew powerful within her, his cock hammering her tight pussy and Ashara moaned all the more for it. Her eyes fluttered, shades of violet rolling back as she moaned underneath him, helpless in the face of Jon's powerful body.

Jon took both of her hands in his, bringing them above her head and pining them to the bed. He fucked her harder then, slamming his cock into her, reaching for his release and delighting in the moans that he wrought from her pretty lips.

Ashara grinned in-between her moans, before her thick thighs turned them in position, his cock not once losing her addictive heat, and sat atop him in all her beauty.

"Slow down, my dear, or this will end before I get what I  _need_ ," she said, breathy, her last word punctuated with a twist of her hips that very nearly made him come undone.

She lifted her wide hips painfully slowly, their dance a spectacular agony for Jon, whom could only lay and watch her sit upon his cock. Her cunt slid along his throbbing length with gorgeous friction, her wetness slicking him and her walls clenching him with delicate brilliance.

Ashara was yet more spectacular then, her breasts swaying in time with her writhing hips, her round arse bouncing against his powerful thighs and her gorgeous face flushing with her ecstasy. She leaned down, to press teasing kisses against his lips and chest and neck, nipping at the skin only to escape from his reach. His hands came to her breasts, rolling her nipples between his greedy hands.

She watched him. His eyes, his face, his mouth, searching for the signs of his growing pleasure. At each moan he uttered, she would slow her hips, teasing him so. At each look of those stormy, grey eyes she would twist her hips all the slowly. And, with each wolfish smile he would give her, she would ride his cock all the harder.

But Jon was not one to take something lying down, and he could handle her teasing no longer. Jon turned them once more so that he lay atop her again, his cock deep inside her, grinding against the constricting walls that swallowed him so deliciously.

Jon met her eyes. There was no mistaking the unquenchable need that stormed there. He was dangling off of the edge, the ache of his cock spreading through him until he was nearly gone.

"Jon," Ashara said, her eyes so lidded they were barely open, her voice nothing more than a moan. She had taken her pleasure for him, and she knew what he needed from her. " _Take me_."

Jon's thighs fucked deep into her, all of his power brought to bring him to the edge. His cock was alight with pleasure, hammering deep and powerfully and everything became blinding.

Ashara withdrew her legs from his waist, bringing them up into the air and forcing Jon deeper into her cunt. Jon grabbed her legs from his side with shaking hands, his being overwhelmed, and brought them higher, sinking yet further. Ashara moaned loudly yet Jon did not hear, so lost was he in his own desires.

"Ashara, I'm about to finish," Jon said, his voice low and primal.

Ashara moaned, her cunt clenching around his throbbing length. "Jon," she gasped, her hands at her neck forcing their eyes to meet. "Cum for me."

Jon looked down and saw her face, her ecstasy painted across every inch of her skin, her legs shaking in his arms, and he came undone.

His hips forced his throbbing cock as deep as it could go, with one, two,  _three_  thrusts, his seed filling her beautiful pussy. Jon saw white, the entire world melting away. For that moment, there was nothing but his own orgasm, his mind's eye blind to everything but the great release that he felt. There was only the white, blissful expanse of his mind's eye.

Jon allowed her legs to fall to his side, his body weak and boneless. He sank into the bed, careful not to fall onto Ashara's beautiful body, allowing his lungs to draw air, for he'd even forgotten to breathe in his brilliant release.

Ashara though, had no trouble breathing, for she lay gasping next to him, still moaning despite their fucking having ended. His senses came back to him, his thoughtless mind remembering that she had not gotten her release.

His eyes flicked open and he watched her. She tilted her head, as if to ask permission to do what she so  _needed_  to do. He kissed her, taking her soft, pouting bottom lip into his mouth.

"Do you want me to help?" Jon asked, his voice not yet recovered.

Ashara shook her head with kind, yet desperate eyes. "Allow me to give you a show, my dear," she said, her hands falling to her beautiful cunny. "All I want for you to do is look at me with those eyes of yours."

Jon kissed at her flushing, vulnerable neck, licking at the skin there before he did as she asked.

His eyes were curious, learning,  _greedy_  for the sight of her bringing herself pleasure. He  _knew_  that this could not be a singular occurrence, and he knew he learn to break her apart, just as she had done to him.

Her index finger moved with practised ease against her clit, her core already so sensitive and worked by their sex. She pressed her clit hard, knowing  _exactly_  what she needed, her fingers nimble as she brought herself to peak.

Jon watched in rapt attention. At her chest which heaved, her breasts soft and covered in her exertion, her hips which snaked uncontrollably, her legs that shook as though lightning shot through them. Yet, mostly he gazed at her beautiful face. Her delicate, high cheekbones, which flushed redder and redder as she worked herself. Her lips, which let moan after moan slip out from her throat in husky tones. Her eyes, which rolled back until he could see them no longer.

Her release came quickly, her wrist fast and agile until she could take no more. Her body writhed upon the bed in blissful ecstasy, her voice lost as she and his releases joined in a pool on the bed. Even her arms trembled in the wake of her undoing, her body limp and finished.

Ashara was mindless, just as he was, for a time, until suddenly her eyes opened and she moved toward him, her pretty face laying upon the bed beside his. He opened his arms and she fell into them with a blissful smile. In truth though, it was he who was held by her, wishing to commit the beauty of her body to memory so that he would never forget the touch of Ashara.

"That is quite the way to meet someone," spoke Ashara, a high laugh trailing her words so unlike the sultry one of before. "I feel as though I've known you years now."

Jon laughed too, his mind agreeing. He knew  _her_  now. Her truest self, rendered down by their bodies joined in bliss.

"I hope I was not a disappointment," Jon said, bashful in the light of day that streamed through the Queen's windows.

Ashara's violet eyes were warm, soft. "Not at all, my dear," she said, her hand coming to comb his hair behind his ear. "You are beautiful."

Despite the blush that rose at her earnest words, Jon did not hide from her eyes.

"You are beautiful too," Jon said, unable to stop himself from taking her mouth in his again.

Jon fell back into the covers of the bed, pulling Ashara so that she might lay on his chest which she accepted happily, and allowed his mind to wander.

It was odd to think on, yet he was no longer a maid, his virtue taken by Ashara Dayne. Of all of his wildest imaginings, that was not one. Still though, he wished it had been Elia.

He knew that it could not have been so, but he still wished it was her. Ashara was the greatest beauty he'd ever seen, he doubted that he'd be able to live happily if they did not take one-another again, but Elia was  _his_ , and he was  _hers_.

"I am sure you will make Ellie very happy," Ashara said, breaking him from his thoughts. "She deserves someone like you."

"I hope so," Jon said, his eyes staring at the ceiling. "I doubt she truly wants me."

Ashara's hands came to his jaw, tilting him until he looked at her. "Jon, I promise you that she does."

Doubt still clouded Jon, and Ashara's violet eyes found it in the swirling greys of his eyes, before they became lost in thought for a moment. A battle was fought behind her eyes, her pouting lips drawing into a line and her delicate eyebrows knitting together until at last she sighed, as if in resignation.

"Elia, I think it may be time to come out," Ashara said, oddly, her voice carrying throughout the Queen's chambers.

And, to Jon's surprise, not soon after Elia appeared from her solar, her dark skin flushed and her dark eyes guilty.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Life got in the way, I'm afraid. 
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Anyway, Enjoy!

Heat.

Heat was all that Elia could feel then as she sat surrounded by her own shame. The heat of Jon and her best and longest friend, intertwined, their bodies in warm unity. The warmth of their touch and the heat in their eyes. But, greater than that, she could not shake the burning that coursed through her.

As she watched them, their glorious bodies moving in such exquisite union, a shameful burning ran through her, beginning from the depths of her core and running to her cheeks and everywhere in-between. In her head, she wished to move, to leave and to leave the heat of that room, but she could not. She was rooted in place, the brilliance of the sight before her all too great to move from.

The true and greatest shame was not, however, that she wished to join the pair; to entangle herself between those two beautiful people. No, she had made peace with that fact quickly. It was that, despite that burning desire, she knew that she belonged at the side. She was in her right place. At the side, watching, her hands touching the places that she watched Jon touch on Ashara, her delicate hands tracing needy patterns on her centre, willing herself to a climax that came quickly and often.

Her being was covered in sweat, drenched by the heat of the southern summer, despite divulging herself of her dress, leaving her only in the thinnest of underclothes. They clung to her then, her slight frame outlined by the lace of her dress and depth of her desire.

She never wished for that moment to end. She wanted for all of time to stop in that glorious moment, for infinity to dawn inside her chambers and never, ever end. To watch her most favourite people bring such joy in each other, and in turn, in her. This was the greatest and best gift she had ever received.

When it ended, she'd have to live her real life, of being the realm's Queen, or Rhaegar's wife or a Martell or a Dornishwoman. She'd have to give up Jon, being his, or of seeing him as he was then; naked and beautiful.

Her hands quickened as she attempted to peak again, her body near-wrung-out as took from it the joy that had, for so long, she had begged for. Jon and his dark eyes were all too focused upon Ashara's beauty, and he did not hear the desperate moans that came from the Queen then. She did not dare cover her mouth either, with one hand working expert fingers into her soaking cunt and the other working perfect circles over throbbing centre.

Her eyes threatened to close in ecstasy, but she did not let them. She could not allow a second of the sight before her to go unwatched, her breath hitching as Ashara drew Jon's release from him, and all too soon, he drew Ashara's. Elia keened, her body writhing as she longed for her release for a final time, but it did not come. Her cunt squeezed upon her own fingers, her hand soaked in herself, but she could not finish.

And, to her dismay, she was not greeted with the sight of Jon and Ashara's second union, but rather the voice of her best friend, calling her forward.

She did not wish for it. She dearly wished for the two of them to continue to do what they were doing. To adore each other. She wished to watch, and continue watching, until the sun set and a new day dawned for her to watch in, again and again.

But, this was her idea. She would not be embarrassed by her own desire. She was their Queen. She would stand before them. Despite the trembling of her body, and her mind close to snapping from the need of her release, she would come before them.

Jon's eyes were the first thing she found. Lidded in bliss though they were, that unbearable focus had not shifted. It appeared, in spite of all that he had done with Ashara, Elia was not shifted from the centre of his thoughts. Adoration surged within Elia then.

Jon stood, disentangling himself from Ashara, whom laid back upon the Queen's bed with an easy, lustful grin upon her pretty lips, a tanned arm supporting her watchful head. Ashara caught her eyes, offering a look. The Queen did not have a moment to take in the beauty of Jon's body before her, as quickly she found one hand biting into her waist and the other gently cupping her cheek.

"Elia, I want you," he said, his body pressed firmly against her, his cock hard against her hip. "I need you."

Jon took her bottom lip into his mouth before she could respond, kissing her, his lips hungry and needy. She could not help but allow herself to be taken, her body taken entirely by her desire. She needed him, too.

"I need you too, my love, but not now," she said, as a wave of clarity managed to pervade the cloudiness of her mind. She kissed him then, her hand coming to rest at his graceful cheekbones.

"And why not?" Jon asked, his eyes much too dark for Elia to handle then. His hand grew firmer upon her hip, holding her as though she were his. Elia dare not think upon it too much, lest she lose all sense. "Is it not time for you to have something you want? Something that makes you happy?"

"I do not disagree, my dear," said Ashara, her voice floating from the bed that she laid upon. "You are allowed time in the sun, once in a while."

Elia pushed Jon away, her eyes closing. "I cannot," she said, with a fervent shake of her head. "This cannot happen, no matter how much I wish for it to. I cannot destroy the life and the family that I have, for so long, protected with all of my heart. Not for this. Not for anything."

Elia watched her words wash over Jon, then. He was, before all else, a man of honour. She knew that Jon would respect her wishes. Or, rather, what she'd said she wished for.

Jon kissed her again, his strong hands gentle against the skin of her blushing face.

"Then why did you mislead me?" Jon asked, with no ire in his voice, his northern tongue even, though coloured with confusion. "Why would you invite Lady Dayne hear?"

"Jon, please," interrupted Ashara. "Your cock still tastes of me. Surely I am Ashara to you now?"

Jon's eyes dipped in acquiescence, though they soon returned to Elia.

"I do not know," began Elia. "Well, that isn't entirely true. I-I-you placed me in a difficult situation," she sighed. "I have never felt this way before."

Jon smiled.

"I didn't know what to do," confessed Elia. "I had thought, by pushing you away, by creating distance, I would be able to solve my problem. In truth, I've only made things worse."

"Ellie, in my eyes, there is not a problem to solve," said Ashara, the bedsheet upon which she lay having slipped, exposing her glistening skin. "You want Jon, and he you. Not a soul has to know."

"And I'm to bank my family's life on avoiding every servant in the capital?" Elia asked, rhetorically. "It cannot happen."

"You still haven't answered my question," Jon reminded Elia, after a moment's pause. "Why would you invite Ashara into my life, if you are so assured this cannot happen?"

Elia's eyes fell to the floor, her cheeks tinged red beyond the flush of desire that still filled her. Silence filled the air, as she searched for the courage to voice the truth.

Thankfully, Ashara saved her from such agony.

"Ellie, if I may?" she said. Queen Elia nodded, quickly. "Ellie likes to look at pretty things, and you, my dear, are a very pretty thing. If she cannot have you, she would make peace with getting to see you."

Jon appeared confused, then, and he had every right to. Elia herself was confused by her desires, of how she became so thrilled by what she watched. Of her best friend being taken by the man she dearly wished to be taken by. It felt wrong, almost, to be a Queen, and yet unable to do as her friend did, but the wrongness made her core ache with want.

"So, you wanted to watch?" Jon asked. "Rather than be with me?"

"If the Gods allowed, I would sooner have both," Elia admitted, honestly. "But I cannot. And to watch is a joy that I can learn to live with."

Jon grew resigned, his brow furrowing. "I would soon be yours, if you'd only ask."

"And I would soon be yours, too," said Elia. "But the Gods will not will it."

Elia could see that Jon wished to argue. To scream obscenities heavenward, to curse the Gods and the whole of Westeros, to take her east and never return. But he did not. He was an honourable man. He would listen to his lady's wish, even if it robbed him of what he would so dearly want.

"Is there nothing I could do?" Jon asked. "Nothing that I could do that would allow you to give yourself to me?"

"I would not wish to plant seeds of hope in your heart," said Elia. "There may be a time that such an idea could not rob me of my family, but for so long as there isn't, I do not think so."

The moment the words left her lips, Elia knew that she'd spoken wrongly.

Jon Snow would move heaven and Earth, if it meant getting that which he wanted, she could see that now. In the set of his jaw and the assuredness of his dark, thoughtful eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"Then I suppose I ought to take my leave, Your Grace," he said, before turning to collect the clothes that made their way to the floor in he and Ashara's need. As he did, he ducked his head to the bed, to kiss the naked shoulders of Ashara, drawing a giggle from her full lips. He dragged his mouth across her collarbone, tracing her delicate chest and tasting at her graceful neck, a quiet moan falling from her.

Elia swallowed her own.

"If that is what you so desire, Your Grace," said Jon, as he dressed. "Then I suppose that leaves you simply watching."

Jon took Ashara's mouth into his own, a handful of hair controlling her every motion. He broke away, after a moment, leaving the Dornish woman gasping for more.

"I suppose there are worse fates," said Jon, with a dark look in his eyes, before he quickly opened the door.

A moan escaped Elia's lips, then, for Jon was not there to hear it.

"I must commend you for your stubbornness, Ellie," teased Ashara, still a-touch breathless. "Despite everything, you still would not budge. It's remarkable."

"Jon is going to be the death of me," said Elia. "He's going to get me killed."

"Or worse, he might get you to start living."

Elia rolled her eyes at her oldest friend. "I don't need that, when you are doing such a wonderful job of living my life for me," she said. "You seemed to enjoy doing so."

"He is very easy to enjoy," said Ashara, a laugh falling from her lips. "He is much too beautiful."

"Much," agreed Elia, her eyes closing. He would be the sight that appeared before her sleeping eyes for many nights to come. She would have to spend those nights alone, in her own chambers, lest her mouth moan Jon's name.

She had no doubt that she would moan Jon's name for many nights to come.

* * *

Jon was not happy, per se, though he very rarely was, these days.

Elia, it appeared, was all too lovely. The kindness that was so apparent in her being, a being that he so adored, had become the great stumbling block between he and her. Such kindness that would place all others before herself.

Jon did not fall at the first obstacle, though, nor did he shrink at the sight of adversity. He'd been raised amongst the Northern winters, after all. She had set herself to be chased. To be his temptation, or rather his motivation.

She had said that the world, as it was then, could not allow for them to be together, as he so dearly wished.

The only solution was to change the world.

Such a thing would take time, but he was young and Elia had the kind of beauty that did not tire. She would not fade, and nor would his desire of her.

However, in the present, that did leave him…frustrated.

There was a pressure within his chest that had built from the moment Elia had rejected him. He'd thought that his time with Ashara would relieve such a pressure, though that was short-lived. Elia had told him she wanted him. He knew that she felt as he did then. Yet, she still denied him.

Furthermore, he could not work through his rage in his usual manner, that being to swing a heavy sword at something until he could scarcely move at all, as his own nameday celebrations soon became a dissatisfying reality.

He'd, therefore, found himself spending all the more time with Ser Arthur, where reckless action would not long go unpunished.

Jon had found, in becoming a man, that each and every 'great' man he met was a source of disappointment. Tourney-winning knights became fat, slow and easy to best, from even before his body had began to grow. Powerful Lords forgot their own people. Great blacksmiths forgot their own skill. Yet, with Ser Arthur, there was no point of change. He was, as he imagined he'd be. Quietly, unforgettably brilliant.

They'd taken to sparring as often as they were able; Jon hoped such a schedule was not hateful to Ser Arthur. Jon doubted it was; if he were as good as the Sword of the Morning, he'd never leave the training yard. Jon knew that he was getting better with every hour he spent under his tutelage, and he truly did appreciate their time together, yet they were never comfortable.

It was not because the man was terrible to talk with, as he undoubtedly wasn't. It was, solely, that he was the finest swordsman this world, the heavens above and the seven hells below, had ever seen, with the finest implement of death a forge could create.

And Jon had fucked his sister.

He knew, rationally, that he had spent his entire life protecting the royal family, and it was unlikely that he had any intention of throwing that away in such a manner. The Dornish, Jon knew, were not ones that believed quite so heavily in the notions of purity that the Seven preached. That did not change the fact that they were family, though.

"Had you given any further thought on entering the joust?" Ser Arthur had asked, rousing Jon, who's focus had then only been on ensuring his eyes did not look especially guilty around Ser Arthur.

"No," Jon said, simply, before his eyes fell back down to his sword which, he then noted, could do with a more thorough sharpening, slight grazes lining its edges.

"You are passable," furthered Ser Arthur. "Your ability is certainly not in the same league as your swordplay, but you would not hurt yourself by entering."

Jon paused his hand's work upon his sword, thoughtful.

He thought back then, to something his uncle had once told him, on why Lord Eddard had never entered into any of the Southron tournaments that they had been invited to and attend, albeit begrudgingly.

He'd spoken of the element of doubt. That, despite sewing the seeds in the summer, there would always be a winter. And, the allies you then competed with, might one day be your enemies; and, if your enemy did not know how you fought, you had all the more chance to win.

Jon had sacrificed full anonymity the second he'd come South, but he resolved to win the small victories that he could.

"Perhaps when they enter the same league, Ser," Jon replied, before standing. "Now, I reckon its time you beat the daylights out of me."

Then he did.

And, perhaps it might have been Jon's imagining, but Arthur left him with more welts than he ever had before. It might have been that Jon was distracted, as he no doubt was, though it could well have been something else, too.

* * *

His day was not made easier by Dany, either.

He came back into his quarters mostly hobbling, his pain distracting him from the very obvious fact that she would be there. It  _was_  where she spent most of her hours, her brother still unaware, to their knowledge, of their arrangement. She was taken from her book by his arrival, her feet quick against the floor as she took him in.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft, her touch softer.

"Nothing some rest won't fix," Jon replied quickly. He leant into her hand, unbidden. "Better pain now than worse later."

She pulled up his sweat-drenched tunic so as to reveal the extent of the damage. Normally, the feeling of soreness that accompanied a good day's training came with an odd sort of comfort. There was something altogether warm about knowing that you'd worked hard, and that you'd gotten better. It tethered you into the real world, grounding you.

There was nothing comfortable about Jon then. He just hurt. He'd likely feel better in a day or more, but then, it just hurt. His skin, he could see, was the sort of red that would give way to mottled blacks and blues, his body looking like an artist's rendition of a night's sky.

Dany gasped as she saw it, her hands instinctively coming to stroke the hammered skin. Jon resisted the urge to flinch.

"Who did this to you?" she asked, her bright eyes peering up at him.

"Ser Arthur."

Dany gasped again. "I had no idea my brother had such pull in the Kingsguard, I-"

Jon laughed, interrupting. "No sweetheart, this was voluntary," he said, red rising in her cheeks. "Ser Arthur is just that good."

Dany flicked at one of his many bruises, and her small hands did draw out a flinch that time.

"He should be more careful," she said, her hands still caressing. "You're a Targaryen. What if you were really hurt?" There was true worry in her voice, her lips forming a pout as she spoke, her hands resting at his midrift. "You are really hurt."

His hand rested atop hers, his thumb skimming against her knuckles. "I'm not hurt, Princess," he said, his voice soft and tired. "I've had far worse in a proper fight. Not much worse, but some."

Dany was not soothed, though. She quickly sent for a maid to draw a bath for him. That was one area he had not needed to worry over, in their closeness being discovered, as Dany was much beloved by those that worked for the royal family and Viserys absolutely was not.

Soon, the warmth of the water filled the air of Jon's room and Dany instructed him to undress, which he did with a sigh, too exhausted to protest and not motivated enough to do so, anyway.

He attempted to shuck off his boots, with great difficulty, groaning at every motion until Dany came over.

"Sit down," she said, insistent though not uncaring. He did so, sitting upon the reading chair that she favoured. He realised then, dimly, that she knew his quarters far better than he did. She kneeled at his feet, folding her soft dress beneath her knees to cushion them, and began to pull away at the warm leather.

Jon fought the smile that came to his face at the sight.

"Now stand," she instructed, as she finished.

"I'm sure I can do the next part myself," Jon protested, though he did stand.

"And I'm sure you could have not gotten so beaten up today, but you didn't do that, and now you aren't doing this," Dany argued, her hands feather-light against his waist, though they were still.

He gave a slight nod, and they moved, quick and dextrous, his breeches soon pooled at his feet, their eyes never leaving one-another. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air in the room too warm for Jon to draw breath.

"The water will soon cool," he said, after a moment, though he sounded struggled, even to his own ears.

Dany nodded, her braided hair bobbing as she did.

The water was blissful against Jon's sore body. He sank deep into the tub, sighing as it touched his worn muscles.

"Thank you for this," Jon said, a small grin on his face, half-lidded eyes looking up to Dany.

She kneeled down against the bath, again carefully folding her dress beneath her knees, a grin on her face too. Her hand came to his hair, pushing her fingers through it. Then, she cupped her hands together, bringing the soapy water to his hair and washing away the dirt that found its way into his curls.

Jon's eyes closed as she did, simply enjoying her touch and accepting her caring touch. He'd never felt anything like it. There was an intimacy to her soft touch that he was left breathless by, from taking the very-tangled locks and slowly, carefully, bringing them to be as pretty as her own.

"I love your hair," Dany said, her voice quiet so as to not break Jon's peace. "It's so lovely."

"I like yours too, Princess," Jon replied, so desperately unguarded then. He was, truly, vulnerable in her soft hands.

"What do you like about it?" she asked, grinning down at Jon, though he did not see it.

"I like the way it shines in the sun," Jon said, with a sigh. "I love the way it feels when I touch it."

Dany's hands left his hair, coming to his cheekbones. "And what else do you like about me, Daddy?"

Jon leant into to her hands, not thinking at what she'd just called him.

"I like how good you are," he told her. A gasp came from Dany's lips. "Unlike everyone down here in this horrible city, you're kind. You care about people," Jon sighed. "You deserve better than this city."

Dany's touch stilled. Jon opened his eyes, looking up to her again.

The steam of the bath seemed to cloak her in an ethereal hue, her silvery hair seeming to glow in the light.

"Where would you take me?" Dany asked, her eyes so very big then.

"I'd take you to my home," Jon said, earnest. "I'd take you a thousand leagues away to Winterfell. We'd live with the Starks, and I'd hunt for our food and we'd only be a three days away from White Harbour so you could go to Essos in four. I could show you the Godswood, and we could swim in the hot-springs. We'd be home."

They both knew it to be a fantasy. But, for a moment, it was a fantasy they both indulged in.

Dany's kissed him then, her lips gently against his, for the briefest of moments. Too brief, for both of them.

Jon stared up at Dany, dazed and enthralled by the angelic beauty of her.

"There's something else I like about you, too," he said, breathless.

Dany smiled more brightly than he'd ever seen anyone smile, her eyes alive with her joy. "And what's that?"

Jon's hand came to her cheek, wet against her skin. "I really like how pretty you are," he said. "How beautiful you are."

Her cheek grew hot against her hand, her eyes dipping downward. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're gorgeous, Princess," he said, his voice deep and hoarse. "I don't know the words to say how pretty you are."

One of Dany's hands came to his chest, her nails lightly scratching at the bruised skin, the other threading into his hair, lightly pulling at his curls. Jon's hands fell to her hips and, with a soft grunt, pulled her into the bath with him, drawing a squeal from Dany's throat. Water drenched her flowing dress, the soft silk clinging to her then like a second skin.

Dany didn't care though. She smiled up at him, her mouth mischievous.

"Daddy," she whined, her lips forming a pout. Jon found himself liking that word more and more every time she uttered it. "I like this dress."

She knelt in the bath, her knees between Jon's legs, bringing it over her head and throwing it onto the floor in a wet heap.

The sight made Jon forget to draw breath.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close to him so that he could feel every inch of her skin. Her head resting against his chest.

"I like this more." Dany said, her nose nuzzling into his neck, before bringing her lips to kiss at the skin there.

Jon let out a sigh, which gave way to a moan as her lips became insistent, her tongue caressing his neck, nipping gently there. Then, her lips formed a circle and sucked at his sensitive skin and he could barely breath again.

His right hand took hold of her hair, dragging her to him and forcing his lips against hers. He adored how small she was in his arms. He could take her wherever he pleased, and she was his to take.

His lips were hungry upon her, hungry for her. He took in her mouth, greedily taking kisses and dragging moans from her pretty lips. His tongue dragged across her lips, diving into her mouth, dominating hers. He drew back, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip and pulling it into his mouth, leaving Dany gasping for more.

Jon pulled back, for a moment, to look down into her eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her pupils huge.

"Do you want this?" Jon asked, his hand resting against her cheek, his thumb against her cheekbone.

Dany brought her small hands to his, taking his thumb into her mouth and sucking gently at it, her eyes closing for a moment, only to open, overflowing with need.

"I'm yours, Daddy."

Jon could not think, so hungry for her was he. He did not care about how sore his body was. All he cared about was devouring her. Taking her. Making her his.

His mouth was everywhere; her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her waist, her everything. He wanted to taste every inch of her skin. He needed her body to know how it belonged to. His hands roved her skin, grasping at her slight curves, taking in the beauty of her. They settled at her arse, his fingers digging to the skin there and pulling her toward him.

His mouth sucked at the skin on her collarbone, drawing gasp after wondrous gasp from her pretty mouth. His hands were busy as he did, holding her firm as she squirmed against his insistent lips, until he pulled away, leaving a red blotch of skin where he used to be.

Jon rose from the bath, leaving its warmth for the relative cool of his room and pulling Dany out with him. His mouth was soon on her again, his arms wrapping around her small waist and pulling her lips up to his.

It struck him then, as to how small she was, for she was on her tiptoes simply to reach his mouth with her own.

Without a thought, he pulled her up, holding her body in his arms until her tanned legs wrapped around his waist, his hard cock pressed against her soaked underclothes. He kissed her desperately, his body overflowing with need, unable to drag himself away from her pouting lips.

He walked the pair of them to his bed before he threw her onto the soft linen, her wet skin soaking the soft material. She let out a squeal as she fell through the air, landing on his soft bed with a gasp.

Jon took a moment to take in the sight of her; of her utter beauty. Her hair, the braids long since pulled out, framing her angelic face, the light of the southern sun bathing her in light, her beauty radiant. She appeared delicate then, her breasts small, her legs elegant though thin, her frame small.

He fell into the space between her legs, which soon wrapped around him once more, linking at her ankles to keep Jon close. He looked upon her face then. Her full, pouting lips, that he wished to taste forever. Her violet eyes that danced with desire. Her flawless skin that he pressed kiss after hungry kiss against.

He kissed that skin again, at her elegant jaw and her high cheekbones and her soft lips, his hands running through her hair, as hers gripped tightly at his muscled back. Jon's cock throbbed at her touch, his need for her so urgent that he ground his cock against her clothed cunt, desperate to feel her.

A moan fell from Dany's lips as his cock drove against her, followed by another and another until all Jon could hear was the sound of her need. She canted her hips up toward his every push, dragging her pussy against his thick cock.

"I need you, Daddy," Dany said, gasping for breath. "I need you to make me yours."

Jon took both of her hands, raising them above her head and pinning them there with one strong arm, the act dragging a happy moan from Dany.

"You're mine, Princess," he said, his other hand making quick work of pulling away at her clothes until she was as naked as he was. "All mine."

He claimed her lips for his own once more, the leaking head of his cock pressed against the soft heat of her needy cunt. He dragged his cock against her, his cock touching her wet folds and her throbbing clit, Dany's breath hitching as he did.

When she spoke again, her voice was almost a cry.

"I need your cock inside me, Daddy," she said, fighting against his grip. "I need you to fill me - I need to feel you inside of me."

But Jon did not do that, ignoring his own need to tease her. He descended down her body, his mouth pressing needing kisses as he did. He stopped at her breasts, one hand playing with the soft flesh, his tongue sucking and biting at her nipple, her arms still held above her.

He descended further, his tongue licking at her abdomen and sucking at her ribcage, ticklish giggles coming in-between insistent moans until he landed at her centre. He pulled her arms down, each pinned at her side as he pressed his nose to her pussy, taking her in.

He pressed gentle kisses to the insides of her thighs, finding her wetness there already. The taste of her on his tongue made him gasp, his mouth quickened as he grew all the more hungry for her.

Soon, his tongue lapped at her clit, drawing wet circles against her throbbing centre and loving the noises he heard in-between her thighs as they began to wrap around Jon's head, keeping his mouth upon her. His tongue dipped, to taste her, to take her in, before swiping and continuing to draw out moan after moan from his Princess.

"Daddy, please don't stop!" Dany pleaded, and Jon did not.

His tongue grew quicker and quicker against her soaked cunt, her essence filling his mouth. Jon could not get enough of her. Her moans grew higher and higher until she cried out, her thighs spasming as they trapped his face against her, her release allowing her to drag her arm free which she brought to Jon's hair, her hand shaking as she held him.

Jon's mouth did not still as she came, his tongue still gently tasting her; he just couldn't get enough of her, only stopping as her writhing body finally stilled, coming up to kiss her and to press his cock against her soaked cunt, his need ignored no longer.

They laid there, for a moment, their forehead pressed against one-another as Jon looked into her eyes, searching. He pressed soft kisses against her flushed skin, before again claiming her mouth.

Dany pulled back quickly, her eyes half-lidded yet the violet waves filled with desire.

"I'm yours, Daddy," she said, her voice soft, pleading. "Please take me."

Her hand came down to grip at his cock, stroking gently against her wetness before placing in-front of her needy pussy, her hips pushing upward, to drag him in. Jon pinned her arms down again, and slowly canted his hips forward, feeling the glorious heat of her for the first time.

His eyes met hers, worried for her for a moment, though that quickly disappeared as her breath began to hitch as she felt the length of his cock work inside her. His lips were upon her, claiming the oxygen that she so desperately needed as he wrought pleasure from her beautiful body.

"You're so gorgeous, Princess," Jon said, his words coming in-between the owning kisses he pressed to her glistening body. "You look so pretty when I'm fucking you."

A moan fell from Dany's mouth that made Jon want to devour her, and he resolved to do just that.

She brought her legs tightly around his waist, her arms wrapping around her shoulders so that they could not be any closer. Her nails dragged against the bruised skin of his back as she held on for dear life as he fucked her. His hips worked his length deep into her soaked pussy, his body breathless but he did not care. He needed Dany, and her body and her cunt, more than he needed oxygen.

Moans tumbled from her pouting lips as he moved within her, and for a moment, he could not think, his mind blind from the beauty that he had before him. He could not believe that Dany, and her angelic beauty, would be laid across his bed, so taken by sin and pleasure and need.

She was enraptured by his cock, drunk on the pleasure of his touch, and he was too. They could not think or feel anything beyond their need, Jon's wounds forgotten and their soaked bodies drenching Jon's bed, all in favour of the touch of one-another upon them.

Jon needed more, though. His mouth was upon her collarbone, sucking harshly at the skin there, his lips in rhythm with the thrusting of his cock. He needed to mark her. He needed to see him, upon her.

Dany did not protest, the moans of her mouth against his ear only growing as she became his. "Yes, Daddy, please," was all she said, her words a mantra as she was his, to take and to use.

Jon pulled back, a fevered grin on his face as he saw what he'd left on her. He knew it was stupid. He knew that it would only cause problems. But he didn't care.

"You're mine, Princess," he said, his body working quicker and quicker as he searched, mindlessly, for his own release. "You're all mine. You're my girl."

Their eyes met, and Dany was taken aback by the hunger that floated through his dark eyes. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, a hungry smile playing at her lips.

"Show me, Daddy," she said, her own violet eyes flowing with need. "Fill me with your release. I want to feel you inside of me. I want to be filled with you."

Jon could not think, or talk or even breath. All he could do was feel. He could only feel the touch of his Princess, of the heat of her skin and the heat of her tight cunt. Faster and faster, his cock worked into her until he could take no more, his body shaking as he came within her, marking, inside and out.

Dany came quickly after, her hands working on her centre as Jon filled her, her tiny frame thrumming with energy as she came undone. She was glorious then, her beauty never greater than when she'd been taken by her Daddy.

There was a haze in the air with their climax and a haze in Jon's mind, too, that disappeared quickly as he'd realised what'd just happened. There was no regret, though.

When he came back to reality, he found Dany smiling at him. Jon slid out from between her legs, moving to her side so that he could hold her fully within his arms, her hands resting against her chest as she nuzzled into his neck. He pressed a kiss to her hair.

"Thank you, Daddy," said Dany, as she welcomed his embrace, a warm smile on her face.

Jon kissed her cheek. "What for?"

"For taking care of me," she said, contented. "For making sure I'm safe."

Warmth filled Jon, then.

Dany was something entirely unique, for him. He knew what desire was, of how you simply needed to feel the touch of a person. And, he knew of the desire to care for someone, like your family. To help them whenever you could, however you could, no matter what.

Yet, with Dany, there was something else. He needed her, and he needed to care for her, but it was as if, then, she became, truly, his. She became Jon's responsibility. She was his to hold, keep and to have, as if, with her, he had a purpose and that was to make her safe and happy.

He dropped his head down to kiss her soft lips, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile as he kissed her.

"You're all mine, Princess."

Dany's eyes lit up, and he knew she could feel the same, yet mirrored. She knew that her place was within his arms. She knew that Jon would be her protector. Her saviour. Her Daddy.

Sleep came soon after for Jon, his body exhausted after all that had gone, though his fall into the land of dreams was made all the quicker by the comfort of holding his girl in his arms. Dany found an easy rest that night, too, safe in the strong arms of Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I changed my name to Wardenofthenorth. While funny, my old account name had begun to annoy me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. I really did enjoy writing it, and getting into the habit of writing in general.
> 
> Have a good weekend, folks!

Jon dreamt of the North, mostly, though that night he did not dream at all.

He was awoken abruptly, at first unaware though quickly realising it was done forcefully. His heart raced as he readied himself to fight, his arm quick to reach for the blade beneath his pillow.

He stopped, however, when he came to realise that it was not an assailant that had come for him, but his own sister.

"Do not move too quickly, brother," she spoke, her pretty face barely visible in the dim light of his room. "You wouldn't wish to wake our dear aunt, would you?"

Jon's eyes flicked down to Dany, whom still slept upon his chest, her soft snores barely making a sound as she breathed against his skin.

He sighed, for there was nothing more to do.

"What do you want?" Jon asked, his voice a terse whisper.

Rhaenys sat upon the edge of his bed, her dark eyes meeting his, clear, and not moving.

"It is always want with you, isn't it?" she asked. "You never wanted to be a Prince, or a Tarygaryen or in the south. You want the north, and your real family. You want the life of your choosing, and, obviously, you want Daenerys."

"Just as you want me in the south, and you want your Aegon," Jon returned. "Difference is; you get what you want, and you get to tell everyone else what you want from them and tell them it's their duty."

His sister sighed, her hands smoothing away at her dress.

"You are disappointing, Jon," she said, after a moment's notice. "You were brought here because you were thought to be able to see the bigger picture. To be able to sacrifice for the greater good of the realm."

Jon's jaw tightened. "They sound like Rhaegar's words," Jon said. "Is that all you are, then?" he brushed a lock of hair from his face. "Just a parrot for him? You walk around, talking, and when it comes down to it, all you ever end up doing is exactly what he tells you to."

Rhaenys' eyes widened. "What are you on about?"

"I asked him about Dany," Jon told her. "About Viserys. He told me to think about the bigger picture. To see the bad that would happen if Viserys didn't get his way. Now, you come here and say the same."

"What do you expect?" Rhaenys returned, leaning toward Jon. "For Viserys to be ripped away from the family? To be killed in the Red Keep?"

"I expect something," Jon said, exasperated. "I expect the most powerful people in the world to use that power to protect their family."

"There are plans in place-"

"Really?" Jon asked, sitting up and jostling Dany from his chest. "Because, from my place, they don't look to be working. You've allowed a tyrant to get to be the second most powerful person in Westeros and you're too scared to go against him. Where's the plan in that?"

Rhaenys stood from his bed, bringing distance between the two of them.

"My intent in coming here was to gain some understanding of you. Of your choices," she began. "I thought, perhaps, that you were simply taken with her beauty as so many are, but apparently not. I judged you harshly and for that I'm sorry."

"I'm too tired for this," Jon said, his patience thin and getting thinner. "Speak plainly."

Rhaenys smiled. "As you wish," she said. "You asked what the plan was and that is simple: it's you."

"What in seven hells are you talking about?"

"When Aegon and I grew old enough to gain our father's ear, we learned that his view had become…warped," Rhaenys explained. "In most areas, he was as competent as he had always been, but in others he had become complacent. He'd allowed Viserys to grow to be the withered branch of our family tree that he is, and for Dany to suffer for it."

"And you did nothing."

"We did what we could," Rhaenys said, hotly. "There is a reason that Dany is here, after all. There was little that we could do until now. Aegon's health came and went and so too did any pull we held. It is only now that he has become stable that we can plan for the future. Before now, I did not think that we would have one."

Jon ran a hand through his hair, dragging the focus he needed then from his body.

"I'm sorry," he began. "This arguing isn't helping. We both want the same thing, and you're right, things are never as easy as they appear from the outside," he looked down, bringing Dany tighter to his body. "Things weren't right before, but they can be now. For Dany."

An odd look passed across Rhaenys face, though Jon could not read it in the dim light.

"I think, then, that you know what you must do," said Rhaenys, after a moment. "Should this grow beyond the family, the realm would bleed. And no-one from outside could enter the fray, for the Kingsguard would kill them."

"So I would become a kinslayer?"

"You would save a lot of lives, and you would be Dany's protector."

"By being a kinslayer."

Rhaenys' eyes turned sharp. "Are you saying that you won't do it?"

"I won't do it," Jon said, simply. "I've not come here to be a martyr for you. But I will stop him."

"How, then?"

"Rhaegar has kept his brother from the public, so they don't see the sort of person that he is," Jon explained. "I'm going to do the opposite."

"You intend to challenge him?" Rhaenys asked, a laugh falling out from her mouth. "On what grounds?"

"He'll make his own grounds." Jon said, confident.

"And should he refuse,what then?" she asked, quickly. "The entire realm will think you're a fool."

"They'll think he's a coward," Jon told her. "He's hidden all his life. The common folk don't know him and the first impression they get is that he's afraid of fighting someone three years younger than him. Tell me; is that someone they would like?"

Rhaenys smiled then, openly, and it struck Jon just how similar she was to Elia, for in joy she was almost as beautiful. "This may just work," she said. "There are whispers among the court, of Viserys and his sanity. It would not take much for them to become more than that."

It was as he had said to Dany some time ago. He did not truly matter, in the eyes of those in the south. Simply, a pair of able hands for those afraid of taking off their silken gloves and getting dirty.

"You do your job, I do mine," Jon said, leaning into his pillows and pulling Dany close to his chest, possessive. "I might end up the first Stark to survive this city."

Rhaenys smiled. "There is very little Stark in what you two have together," she said, before leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek, her lips almost brushing at the corner of his mouth. "Not that either I or Aegon have much of a leg to stand on."

Jon's mind was cast back to his two siblings, in their room, together.

"Do not feel obliged to call only one port home, Jon," Rhaenys added, as her eyes searched his beautiful face. "We Targaryens live differently than the rest of the world. Do not feel guilty for being special."

Jon doubted that his sister would truly appreciate how special Jon's life was shaping to be.

"If I live through this, I can worry about that." Jon said.

Rhaenys laughed, the sound as light as air. "Oh, there is no 'worry', only joy," she said, once more leaning in, her mouth against his ear. "I do look forward to having both of my brothers inside of me."

Jon's eyes closed for a moment, his mind painting pictures of his sister's mouth begging for his cock, while her body writhed on Aegon's, and he fought the urge to take her then. Or to wake Dany and have both of them, then, and force Rhaenys' pretty mouth into Dany's beautiful cunt.

"I'm sure Aegon would love sharing you." said Jon, instead.

"He would," said Rhaenys. "Do you want to know what he would like more?"

Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.

Rhaenys reached down, her soft hand feeling the outline of his cock, hard against his linen sheets.

"He'd rather have your hard cock inside of him, while he fucked me," she said, her voice a siren's call as she whispered into his ear. "He's always wanted to be taken by a man. To be utterly dominated by someone stronger - someone more powerful than him."

Jon reached up, holding Rhaenys by the jaw. Her dark eyes widened, taken aback by the look in Jon's,

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asked, his voice confident and assured. "You'd love seeing me take Aegon, wouldn't you?" Rhaenys tried to look away, demure, but Jon brought her to face him again. "I bet he'd look so gorgeous with my cock inside of him, how pretty he'd be moaning for me."

Shock ran across Rhaenys' face, though she quickly smiled.

"I think you might fit in King's Landing far better than anyone would have imagined."

Rhaenys left quickly after that, and Jon did not begrudge her that. If she hadn't, they'd have done something better suited for another time.

He did wake Dany up soon after, though, with his mouth on her cunt, bringing her awake in a manner far more pleasant than his own.

* * *

It was Dany that awoke him after though, speaking a tongue that sounded much too sharp for her soft mouth.

She was sat up upon the bed, her blonde hair gilded by the morning sun, shining like spun gold, framing her pretty face. Jon could not believe quite how pretty she was, even then, as the day had scarcely begun.

Her eyes flitted down to him, noting his wake, and she continued to speak in that odd, sharp tongue, and though Jon cleared away the sleep that held him, he still did not recognise what it was that she was saying.

With sleep-weary arms, he pulled her to him, pressing his lips to her neck and cheeks, drawing soft giggles from her, before he rested his head against her chest, drawing comfort in the easy rhythm of her heart.

"I'm sorry Princess, but I don't know what you're saying," he told Dany, as he allowed himself the selfish joy of her touch.

She shot up, jostling him from his comfortable rest. "You do not know Valyrian?" she asked, her voice quick. "How?"

Jon smiled affectionately as he watched the indignation spread across her face. "Not many people north of the Neck with violet eyes," he reminded her.

"But that isn't fair!" she exclaimed, outraged, her lips pouting. "You're being denied part of your Targaryen heritage."

"I can read it some," Jon admitted. "Maester Luwin would've killed me otherwise."

Jon couldn't help but kiss her pout away, the sight of her too beautiful for him to resist. "What use would I have for it, anyway?"

Dany's eyes flicked down, away from his own.

"We could talk in secret," she spoke, her voice shy.

"I doubt it would be much of a secret, with half of the Red Keep knowing it, and nearly all of Essos too," Jon told her. He sighed, then. "I was never much good at learning languages, anyway. I spent two years trying to learn the Old Tongue and my Uncle Benjen still laughs whenever he hears me speak it."

Dany looked at him, surprised by his openness. "What's the Old Tongue?"

"It's what the Freefolk - the people north of the Wall - speak," Jon told Dany, his voice drawing deeper as he thought of the North. "It's the language of our people, the First Men."

"I would've thought, with it being so important to your people, that I'd've heard of it before," Dany said, blushing as she spoke.

"The North doesn't like sharing our secrets," Jon said, a warm smile on his face.

Dany settled again, falling so that they were eye to eye, their hair touching on their pillows.

"You call the Wildlings, 'freefolk'," she stated.

"I do," Jon nodded. "The ones that live north of the Wall, anyway. The ones that reave the lands of the Starks are Wildlings and they're offered the King's justice."

"Was that what you were doing, then, in the North?" Dany asked, curious. "Delivering the 'King's justice'?"

Jon shook his head. "No," he said, his voice gruff. "The freefolk are a good people. They're our people, truly. They might not kneel for the crown, but they still deserve our help, especially when winter nears. The clans that could farm were allowed land, the clans that could fish were allowed use of our ports and nets. Some who wanted to settle were allowed to, provided they recognise Lord Stark as their liege lord."

"I did not know that they were skilled in such a way." Dany admitted.

"They have to survive somehow," Jon said, with a grin. "There are some that don't know anything but stealing and killing, and they're the ones that got the King's justice, but they're rare. Most of them just want for their family to survive."

Dany brought her lips to his cheek, before she looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Would you tell me more about them?"

Jon was powerless to say no, and so he didn't, pulling her close to his chest.

"They're the toughest people I've ever met, but the kindest too," he began. "Most of them can hunt and take care of themselves before they're ten, and I swear some of them fight so well you'd think they came out of their mother with an axe in their hand. I lived with a clan for about a month, the Thenns they were called, and they used to call me southern for speaking the common around them."

"I can't imagine ever thinking of you as southern." Dany told him, enjoying the way his voice changed as he spoke of his home.

Jon smiled into her hair, his eyes alive with recognition. "There was a woman, Val was her name. She said everything I did was southern; threatened to geld me unless I stopped talking 'that stupid language', or geld me if I kept wearing southern clothes or geld me if I kept eating like a southerner. I think she just wanted to geld me."

Dany smiled, amused, though her eyes grew soft. "Was she your first, then?"

Jon laughed, shaking his head. "No," he said. "I doubt she ever thought've me as anything other than a nuisance."

Dany shook her head, though. "I do doubt that," she said, before beginning again. "Who was your first, then?" her voice grew soft and whimsical. "Did you have a love among the freefolk?"

"No, no love," he said. "Some tried to steal me - that was what they called courting - but no-one did."

"I find that difficult to believe," Dany said, rising to press a kiss to Jon's mouth, a hand passing through his hair. "You're incredibly easy to adore."

"Most of them felt differently," Jon said, laughing easily. "Once they knew who I was, for them I stood for everything they hated. Most the north felt that way, for one reason or another. Took a long while to get them to think anything different."

Dany pulled Jon close for no other reason than she wished to.

"Who was your first, then?" she asked, after a moment. "I would not believe that it was me."

Jon paused for a moment, wondering the intelligence in telling the truth before realising, dimly, that this was Dany, and he trusted her beyond nearly anyone.

"If I say who it is, you won't believe me." he said, searching the right words.

Dany climbed on top of his waist, her knees holding Jon between her so that their centres brushed against one-another. She dropped her body down, so that she could feel as much of his body against hers as she could.

"I doubt there is anyone in the world that I would doubt would have slept with you, given the slightest opportunity," she said, her mouth moving next to his ear as her hips began to work against his, dragging her wet pussy across his cock. Her voice grew soft, coo-ing. "My Daddy is so handsome."

Jon's hands came to her hips, instinctively, possessively.

"It was Ashara Dayne." he said, his voice almost a growl against his girls ear.

Dany stopped moving, her eyes widening at his words.

"H-how?" she asked.

Jon easily brought their bodies together again, controlling Dany's body to his desire.

"That, Princess, is a story for another time." Jon said, before turning the two of them over and taking what was his.

* * *

Something needed to happen, Tywin realised.

There always came a time, whether by persistent intervention or by civil unrest, that society required bloodshed. Mankind's dominion was natural, though some of its by-products were not. With the ease with which people lived, the weak were allowed to live far beyond that which nature would normally allow.

Just as blight took sheep or the lion ate the slowest deer, war took the unneeded, just as the Gods would decree.

Humanity required war just as it required food or shelter, for the notion of large-scale death allowed for, even brief, unity. War divided and war damaged but war also unified. That was how the Lannisters had jumped up the ladder, up into nearly the very top, just a shade below the Targaryens. They navigated alliances like the birds navigated the skies.

Tywin did not begrudge such a spot, either. The stupid and the bold aimed at the top. That was why so many Kings were assassinated, but far fewer Hands. They stood, high and mighty, in-front of so many people, but they were just as easily taken from there. They came and went with the tide, but the Lannisters did not.

The Lannisters might not be the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, but Tywin had written every law passed in the last four centuries, just as he had organised every war effort and every exile. He directed trade with the east and taxes with the populous.

In that time, the Mad King Aerys was put to the sword by a member of his own Kingsguard, Tywin's own son. Rhaegar had been crippled in quelling Robert's Rebellion, never again would he lift a lance.

Tywin, however, had never taken a blow in battle, and he'd never lost a battle, either.

If Tywin was careful, his legacy would be as the finest Hand that the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. He'd allowed the realm to survive the sickness that was Aerys Targaryen, organising his exist from this world and the entry of Rhaegar, a man who's only crime was not marrying Tywin's daughter.

Tywin knew though that he needed a true victory if he was to be seen as such. Though tactical, he knew of how the realm spoke of his actions within the Rebellion. It was not with quiet voice that the common people spoke that the King Rhaegar ought to be careful around him, for he would order his Kingslayer son to kill him at the earliest opportunity. His actions against the Rains of Castamere drew more fear than respect, though he did not draw a great deal of disappointment from that.

Tywin needed a war. He needed a victory. And Jon Targaryen might just be the key.

Jon had joined the small council meetings infrequently, though enough for Lord Lannister to get the measure of him. He was a young man of principle, though not quite as pious as Ned Stark in that regard. He spoke of what he knew, and listened in the cases that he did not know. He was not afraid of speaking his mind, or of what the other Lords thought of him. He wasn't afraid of war, either.

Much could be drawn from the reaction that a man offered to the threat of conflict. You could not trust those that avoided it at all costs, for they would place you before the sword if it meant that they weren't there instead. You could not trust the man that fought for war in all cases, either, as they were just as likely to end up killing you as they were killing your enemies.

Yet, as the talks of the small council meetings introduced the very likely conflict between the Iron Islands and the Crown, Jon did not shirk away, as Aegon would have done, and he did not commission Wildfire, as Aerys would have done.

His legitimisation offered Tywin a great deal. His place as a Targaryen meant that there were now royal heirs to be earned for any leading family. Such an heir would go to the Lannister name; there was to be no doubt about it. If the Greyjoys were absent, as they were no doubt going to be, then war would be on the horizon. War tended to quicken the actions of all involved, for fear of what was to come, and such a reality helped Tywin greatly. Within the year, Myrcella would be a Targaryen Princess, and her children as Lords of Summerhall and Casterly Rock, and Tywin's name would be forever attached to greatness.

* * *

Soon, far sooner than Jon had ever imagined it to be, he was greeting his own family again.

It was his uncle and cousin first, for they were still in the South at the time they'd been summoned for his nameday, the journey of the Reach to the capital far lesser than even sailing from the North, as was to be the course of travel for his lady aunt and cousins.

Jon had known that both Robb and his Uncle Ned wouldn't wish for anyone to stand on ceremony for them. Robb might've done, once upon a time, though such wishes had disappeared as he learned the truth of what honour was. Honour was to be found in your own actions, Jon had remembered his uncle saying, not in the eyes of others.

He, therefore, had fought against the small council's wishes of a full welcome party for the Stark contingent. They, though largely Varys, had declared that for his family to receive anything less would be a discredit against them; the very notion showed just how little southern lords knew of northern values.

The sight of Robb and Eddard Stark was an incredibly welcome one for Jon. He and Robb grew up together, their ages close enough that they lived near-parallel lives and, though as they both reached their teens they found themselves spending time apart, they hadn't often gone as long as they had without seeing one another.

Robb dismounted his horse in one smooth motion, his feet meeting the ground of the Red Keep and his arms outstretched to greet Jon.

"It's good to see you again, Snow," he said. It seemed odd, yet their was a great comfort Jon found in hearing a voice of his own people for once.

"And you, Stark," replied Jon, a grin on his face before he turned to his Uncle Ned, his face growing sombre. "Lord Stark."

"None of that, Jon," dismissed Ned, pulling Jon toward him and greeting him just as Robb had. Jon noted that they were eye-level to one-another then, Jon having grown the final half an inch or so, so as to find himself on par with his Lord Uncle. "How've you been?"

"Better than could be expected," Jon admitted, wordlessly directing the three of them into one of his own, private rooms. His Uncle's men would be seen to, his horses cared for and their dogs taken to the kennels. "Still find it hard to make sense of it all."

"Aye, I know how you feel," Robb said, wearing the same grin he'd worn when he was ten and one of the pretty serving girls kissed him. "I have some news of my own. Not quite as spectacular as you though, your majesty, but news all the same."

Jon ignored Robb. "What is it?"

"Margaery Tyrell and I are agreed to be wed," he said, his voice surprised. "We have no idea of the date, but it's probably going to between your coronation and the start of winter."

Pride filled Jon's face. "That's great," he said. "Everyone says she's great."

"She's lovely," Robb admitted, the beginnings of colour entering his cheeks, before lowering his voice. "I imagine she'll be even lovelier in the north, away from the rest of the Tyrells."

Jon did not speak his agreement for it would only serve him ill, but he nodded as Robb spoke. The Tyrells were loyal to the crown, but more than that, to themselves.

They were blessed with bountiful land and great wealth, and such luxury often eroded their sense of good. Mace Tyrell, for example, whom continued to lay siege upon Stannis Baratheon long after the war was over, his only defence being his own fecklessness. Yet, there was still good to be found there, for Garland and Willas were both well-respected men whom were loved throughout the realm, for varying reasons.

They produced people of outstanding qualities. Whether those qualities were good or bad though, was something that only the Gods could decide. None more exemplified that more than Loras Tyrell, for whom Jon found himself equally exasperated and endeared.

"And Sansa?" Jon asked, half-worried over the answer.

"They offered Garland; we said no," Ned said, simply. Jon was quietly relieved, for the Tyrells held all of the prestige that she desired and all of pain that she would no-doubt ignore to get it. "Now, lets not talk any more of this. How are you, Jon, truly?"

"I'm well enough. I'm not a prisoner here, if that's what you're worrying over," Jon said. "It's not what I first wanted for my life, but it's alright."

Ned's eyes were piercing as they searched Jon's face, though their focus disappeared quickly.

"There'll always be a place for you in Winterfell," Ned said, after a moment. "The north will always be home for a Stark, and that's what you are. You're my blood, and you always will be," Ned laughed. "Even if I do end up bowing to you."

Jon took comfort from his uncle's words, childish though that may be.

"So, what about you, Targaryen," Robb began, the name odd on his tongue. "Are we to expect a royal wedding soon?"

"Other than Rhaenys and Aegon, no," Jon said, chuckling. "I think they want me to actually visit Summerhall before they go about getting me a Lady for it."

The truth of the matter was obvious, though.

"Just be careful, son," Ned told him. "I don't need to tell you that just being who you are attracts danger."

"No, you don't," Jon agreed, running a hand through his hair.

Lord Eddard left then, and Robb was quick to follow, though he and Jon hugged once more before he did. "There is one more thing," he whispered, as they embraced. "Father is arranging for Arya to be betrothed to Robin Arryn."

Jon pulled back, shocked. "How?" he asked, for he could think of little else.

"I know," agreed Robb. "I know, it's a terrible idea, but if we reaffirm our alliance with the Vale, the less likely it becomes that the Boltons fight against us in the wars to come."

"Isn't it strong enough?" Jon asked. "Jon Arryn raised Lord Stark. Do we really need to subject Arya to that sort of life?"

"Father thinks one day she'll turn around and drop her needle and pick up one of Sansa's," Robb told Jon. "He thinks one day some lord will come along and make her settle."

The very notion of Arya 'settling' made Jon's blood boil.

"If he wants her to run in the night to the free cities, be my guest," Jon said.

"She wouldn't do that." Robb said, though his voice did not hold conviction.

"She'd do whatever she wants to," Jon said, meeting Robb's eyes. "You better make Lord Stark remember that."

* * *

The one true bright spot of Jon being  _Jon_  was that it had brought she and Ashara together again.

Over the days and weeks they spent together, Elia was made painfully aware of the time they had spent apart. Though they wrote frequently, it was simply not the same as being with her best friend. Elia found herself laughing easier with each passing day, the effects of Queendom felt so much less severely.

They were, then, transported into decades past, when they were both little more than girls, sharing their beds, and their time and their thoughts, freely. There were no barriers between the two of them, for it seemed as if they were both parts of each other; Elia was dearly relieved she had that part with her, again.

Rhaegar, in his preparation for Jon's celebrations, became all the more isolated from his wife, though Elia found that she did not mind. For many years, they'd become little more than acquaintances, albeit ones that shared loved ones, and as Rhaenys and Aegon grew beyond constant attention, Elia found fewer and fewer reasons to talk to him with each passing day.

Yet, as more and more of the realm's lords and ladies passing into the Red Keep with each passing day, she soon found herself sat beside him, as the great and the good of the Seven Kingdoms feasted, their number large enough then that she could no longer take her meals as she would have preferred; within her chambers, with Ashara.

Soon, every great Lord from the Vale to the Reach would descend upon her again, and she would have to play this charade before them. Elia would appear, quiet and courteous, beside her husband. They would ask of her health, the ensuing conversation one she'd repeated for nearly fifteen years, though they would still look at her as though the Stranger was looming.

Elia knew that this was to be the way of her life; she'd known for as long as she'd been married. Her good graces were simply a destination of the politically minded, their attentions tools for their own consumption of power. Truly, she also knew that there were far worse fates, for Rhaegar was not abhorrent, simply absent.

That, in truth, was what made Jon all the more attractive. When he looked at her, he did not see power, or possibility or potential. He looked at her, wanted her, as she was then. He wanted her.

He made no excuses for it, nor did he even begin to disguise his intentions. There was no forethought in his admiration, nor any forethought of the outcome. He lived, in moments, and in some of those moment, beautifully, he lived for her.

Elia longed for such moments. She never wished for them to ever end.

Her attention was nearly entirely taken by Jon, then, as they shared the dining hall of the Red Keep. She was not alone in her interest, for nearly ever Lord and Ladies' eyes were upon him. Some held much the same interest as Elia, though largely those eyes calculated. They looked at Jon, just as they often looked upon Elia. Weighing him; assessing Jon's value.

Perhaps, had he been younger, Elia might've found herself feeling sorry for him, as his humanity disappeared in their eyes, displaced by their greed. Yet, from what she knew of the man, she could only feel sorry for the rest of them. If they thought him a tool in their games, they were in for a rude awakening.

It would be a week until he was a legitimised Targaryen, though nothing would change save his own title. Elia knew of how the servants spoke of him; all that lived within the keep knew him already to be a Prince. He ended quarrels in the streets alongside the Kingsguard, his approach measured though not soft, his word accepted as law despite his own position. The cutpurses that plagued the royal family did not plague Jon, for no good would come of taking a knife to him.

She'd asked Arthur of his standing amongst the Kingsguard. Art was not one for such talk, though he did quickly admit his talent, though there was a clash of approach between them. Arthur's strength was in being everything that one could expect and more. He was the storybook knight, tall and gallant and chivalrous. Though quiet, Elia knew that he enjoyed the spectacle of his own ability. He was honourable, and he was valiant, but he was more valiant than he was honourable.

Jon, however, drew strength in defying expectation. Where all had expected a northern warrior, with brute power and flailing fists, he was the opposite. He was deft in motion, quick across the ground and elegant in action. There was beauty within his work, but Elia knew him not to be valiant. Valiant people did not lust for their father's wife. He adored honour, of helping those that were hurt and punishing those that did the hurting, but he knew want, and he was not afraid of wanting.

Elia watched him then, as he sat amongst the lords that would one day serve him. He sat, bracketed, on one side by the Starks of Winterfell, and the other side by Princess Daenerys, whom sat far closer to Jon in comparison.

Elia was warmed by the sight. The Princess had always been a shy girl, and to find shelter from such a thing with Jon was wonderful. She had heard, through whisperings, that they were close, and the idea was a happy one. Elia was glad that Jon had found something within the south to care for.

Jon was many things, but rarely had Elia seen him quite as comfortable as he was then. With her, he was…electric. Gods, he made her feel as though lightning lanced through her, his whole face darkening, his face's elegant structure becoming sharp as he pinned her down with his eyes.

Yet, with Daenerys, it was as if he was another person entirely. Neither younger nor older, nor kinder or crueller. There was a softness to Jon then, with the Princess beside him. He smiled easier, his eyes light and even laughing when she spoke to him, a slight dimple appearing upon one of his cheeks as he did.

In truth, he appeared far happier then, among his family. His laugh was quiet, but when Robb Stark joked, he did laugh. Elia hoped, in time, that she might see more of this new, softer Jon.

Prince Viserys appeared, then, and any softness that Jon held was burned away in an instant, just as Daenerys stiffened beside him.

Regrettably Rhaegar's brother grew to be his clone in appearance only. Even then, as he walked among some of the most powerful men in Westeros, he met no-one's eyes except the King's, his nose in the air and a sneer playing at his face as he sat beside the King, Aegon and Rhaenys absent.

Jon's focus had never moved beyond Viserys, from the moment he arrived into the room. He watched him walk, and sit and eat and talk, his grey eyes watching, waiting, their gaze darker than Elia had ever seen them.

Beside him, Daenerys too kept watch of her brother, though it appeared as though she'd shrank half of her side, her body hidden behind Jon and the Starks, her violet eyes daring to peak at the Prince before she shrank once more into Jon's side.

Elia realised, dimly, that Viserys had engaged her husband in conversation and that she ought to listen, though she found Jon to be rob her of her attention. Viserys spoke all manner of things, though largely of the injustice in naming Jon to be a Targaryen, not caring for the ears that would hear.

It was then that he first brought his eyes to Jon, the elder Prince taken aback by the look he found there. But, more than that, he was shocked by the sight of his sister, his betrothed, beside him.

There, it was that Elia saw the melding of the two Jon's she'd before witnessed, of the softness and the burning, for Jon's eyes never left Viserys' as he took one of the Princess' hands into his own, gently threading their fingers together for a moment, their skin touching upon the dining table and in full viewing of the Dragonstone Prince.

The action was slight enough, so that no other person might have caught it, the motion innocuous enough that only the mad and plotting would think much of it. Soon, Jon let go of her hand, his eyes finally flicking away to gaze kindly down upon the Princess, and to all the world, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Yet, no more than a ten yards away, Elia could feel the blood boiling within the Prince of Dragonstone.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.
> 
> PMs welcome.


End file.
